Genesis of a Dragon
by InkInThePen
Summary: A dwarf denied the throne, a noble bent on vengeance, a tainted Dalish hunter, a mute carta enforcer, a one-eyed elven criminal, and an arson-prone mage from a different reality all walk into a bar. The bar is Thedas and Blight is on tap and it's happy hour. The script is broken, ignored, or occasionally set on fire as the Wardens forge a new path to the future of Thedas.
1. A Bloodied Circle (Part 1)

The first week of it was the worst. Waking up one morning to discover you suddenly inhabited a body not your own was, to grossly understate it, a bit disorienting. Even more confusing was the fact that everyone around him was dressed like they were ready for a renaissance fair or or a con. Except that was their day-to-day attire.

He thought for sure he was dreaming when he saw an elf browsing a dusty old book. An actual elf. Not someone wearing plastic glue-on ears. The elf looked normal at first glance, but his features were too elegant and streamlined to not be just a little alien. The elf's eyes threw him even more. On top of being just a little too large and vibrant, the pupils were vertical, like a cat's.

When the elf caught him staring, he glared. "Can I help you, shem?"

Shem. His first clue.

Not long after he watched, slack jawed, as a boy no older than ten manifested a ball of light as a group of adults watched on. An older man saw his shocked expression and laughed softly. "He's learning quickly, isn't he? Barely been here a month, and already grasping the basics of the spirit tree. Watch out, these new apprentices are catching up to you."

He could have maybe processed the fact that there were elves and people doing magic if not later that very same day he didn't call up fire in his own hands. Despite his panic, the fire wasn't… hurting him.

He'd been about to stop drop and roll when a man in armor approached him, hand raised. A wave of energy passed him over, and the fire disappeared. He swallowed hard—his mouth suddenly tasted of metal.

"You know the rules, apprentice. No casting outside of classes without supervision. Just because the First Enchanter said you'd be taking your Harrowing soon doesn't mean you can ignore the rules," the armored man said, shaking his head.

First Enchanter. His second clue. The pieces started to fall into place, and he tried very hard to not have a panic attack in front of what was very likely a templar.

"Right," he spoke. His voice was different. Lower, more even, than before. "Sorry. Just… practicing."

The armored man continued down the corridor, muttering something about mages and not getting paid enough.

He had panicked. Barely registering his actions, he'd all but run to what looked promisingly like a library. He'd grabbed a book off the first shelf without even checking to see what it was, found a vacant table, and opened the book and sat down.

He'd really hoped to the casual observer that he was just engrossed in the text, not fully experiencing an existential crisis.

This wasn't happening. This was a dream. An extremely realistic dream. If not, then an elaborate prank.

Why—how the hell had he fallen asleep on his couch watching Game of Thrones and woken up in a video game? That kind of shit didn't happen to actual people.

He'd spent what felt like an eternity of trying to rationalize. It didn't make sense. He wasn't sure it ever would.

His downward spiral of existential dread had been interrupted by someone shaking his shoulder. He snapped his head up to see a face he'd only previously seen before behind a computer monitor.

"Are you alright? You're white as a sheet."

Jowan. From the mage origin. Given that Jowan was here, he could assume this was before the Blight. That was useful to know, anyways.

He'd thought quickly, trying to come up with a reasonable way to play this off so no one would think he was possessed (which he supposed he technically was?) and get a templar to run him through.

"Yeah. Just… it just really hit me, you know? The Harrowing," he said. The templar had said something about his—or whoever's body he was inhabiting—expecting a Harrowing soon.

Jowan looked surprised. He gulped—was that not the right thing to say? "Really? You're that worried? But you're always so confident."

"Uhm… I just didn't want you to see how scared I am." He was fucking terrified.

Jowan's expression softened. "You know you don't have to hide anything from me. You're my best friend, you can tell me anything." Jowan shifted a little uncomfortably, "Honestly, you probably don't have anything to worry about. Nira passed her Harrowing last month, remember? And she's only seventeen. But to be fair, that's Nira. Irving's star pupil." Jowan rolled his eyes. "Still, you're easily the most talented of the current apprentices. I overheard Irving and Greagoir talking earlier, and they expect you'll do well once the time comes."

He listened carefully as Jowan spoke, trying to gather context. Someone named Nira was Irving's favorite. That was usually whoever the Hero of Ferelden ended up being, right? And apparently he was supposed to be a competent mage. Great. So he was inhabiting a body with the power to set a city on fire, but none of the knowledge on how to actually control it.

He'd felt his hands starting to heat up. He'd clenched his fists under the table, nails biting into his palms painfully. _Stop it, stop it, stop it… _He'd managed not to burst into flames, at least.

Jowan had then grabbed the book laid out on the table. "What were you reading? I called you a couple times, but you were so focused I don't think you heard me." Jowan turned the book so he could read the cover, raising an eyebrow. "'Koslun: Philosopher or Tyrant?'" He asked skeptically.

He'd sighed, realizing he was going to have to do a tremendous amount of bullshitting to keep suspicions from rising. Fortunately, he knew his Dragon Age lore.

"Yeah. The Qunari are more interesting than you'd think, especially with how they see magic. Did you know they fear magic so much they collar their mages and sew their mouths closed?"

Jowan's face turned very, very white. He passed the book back so fast it might have been on fire. "Sounds like light reading. Come on, or we'll be late for our afternoon lecture."

He looked back down at the book and realized with a start that it was definitely not written in English. The letters were strange and blocky. There were a couple characters that he thought he could recognize if he squinted really intensely. It looked vaguely closer to ye olden English, like, from before Shakespeare. But that was all he could reasonably compare it to.

Marvelous. Not only was he trapped in a body not his in a place that was supposed to be fictional, but he was also now illiterate. An illiterate mage. Yeah, no way he was going to be able to explain his sudden inability to read.

Fortunately, no one called on him to read out loud.

He learned shortly enough that his name—or the name of the man who's body he was wearing—was Edmund.

Edmund Amell.

Which meant he was inhabiting the body of a potential Grey Warden.

It was weird hearing people call him that, but he learned to respond to it quickly enough.

He'd spent most of the first weeks in the tower not talking much and listening like his life depended on it. Because it probably did. He listened in the lectures in silence with the text open in front of him, trying to learn the words on the page by listening to the instructors speak. It helped a little, but really not enough. Most of what they talked about sounded like nonsense anyways—something about repulsion fields compounding aura amplification in conjunction with minor spirit interceptors.

He was doomed. His calculus classes had made more sense than this. He knew general information about magic from codex entries, but when it came to actual technical know-how he was no better than the newest apprentice.

He used the lecture hours to get the hang of writing with a quill and ink on scrap pieces of parchment, which was significantly more challenging than he expected.

In the practice sessions where they were actually required to perform magic, he used nerves from his impending Harrowing as an excuse to not participate. Most of the instructors bought the excuse with sympathetic eyes and allowed him to observe.

There was one that still made him participate, citing that "he would want to be well prepared."

He was handed a staff and instructed to cast a paralysis spell on one of the other apprentices.

There were so many ways for this to go wrong.

He took a slow breath, trying to remember the information about paralysis spells from the game.

_The caster saps a target's energy, paralyzing it for a time unless it passes a __physical resistance check__, in which case its movement speed is reduced instead._

Edmund gripped the staff in his hand, imitating the casting position from the game. It felt awkward and stiff.

He needed to use his mana to draw on energy from the Fade. Which would probably be a simple matter if he knew how to actually _do_ that.

Edmund took another deep breath and pulled from something deep within him. It felt… like a door opening, but the hinges were rusty and resistant. The door opened the slightest crack.

He felt energy pass from him towards the other apprentice, but nothing really happened. He glanced uncertainly at the instructor, who motioned that he should try again.

He refocused. That door inside him needed to be open more. He took another deep breath, pulling at the door.

It flew open, unleashing a torrent of power like floodwater.

He cast again.

The apprentice's robes caught fire.

"Shit! I'm so sorry!" He dropped the staff as the apprentice started screaming. "Stop drop and roll, come on!" Did the same principles for putting out normal fires even apply to magically conjured flames?

Edmund looked desperately to the instructor… who was not moving. He turned wildly to the other apprentices in the class. They weren't moving either. No one in the entire hall was moving, except for him. And the still screaming apprentice who was currently wrapped in a rug, rolling on the floor.

He hadn't paralyzed the apprentice like he was supposed to. He'd set him on fire…

He reached back within himself and pulled that psychological… magical…. whatever door closed as hard as he could. The paralysis lifted, and the flames vanished. The poor apprentices' clothes were mostly ash, now, leaving him nearly naked in front of his entire class.

The instructor stared in astonishment that quickly turned to anger.

Edmund smiled sheepishly. "Sorry. Harrowing nerves got the best of me." The Harrowing excuse felt paper thin, but it'd held up so far.

"Young man, you must regain control over yourself, or you will never master the de—the challenge." The instructor scolded.

The demon, he completed silently. He knew something of what to expect. More than they thought he knew. But also, somehow less.

He was vaguely aware of the other apprentices staring at him and turned to see them wearing blatant awe and jealousy on their faces, which confused him.

It was cleared up for him later that evening when he found Jowan in the mess hall.

"Is it true?" Jowan said, dropping his plate on the table and sitting next to Edmund.

He raised a brow. "Is what true?"

"Don't start being humble now!" Jowan knocked his shoulder good-naturedly. "Keili says you cast mass-paralysis on the entire practice hall!"

"On accident." He shrugged, going back to his porridge.

"Ohoho, you may be able to fool old Enchanter Brigsby, but you can't pull the wool over my eyes. I know you; you'd never pass up a chance to show off. Where'd you find the time to learn such an advanced spell, anyways?"

He added that to the list of attributes he was learning that described the actual Edmund. A talented mage who preferred the creation schools of magic, which caused some eyebrows to raise at his apparently sudden "proficiency" with fire. Despite his gifts, Edmund was apparently a troublemaker and rebellious often enough for most of the enchanters to expect chaos from him. And also, apparently a showoff.

Jowan was still going on about his apparently impressive spellwork when an unfamiliar elven woman seated herself on the other side of the table from him. Her yellow robes identified her as a full mage, no longer an apprentice.

She was… striking, was one word for it. Her hair was light enough to be mistaken for silver and pulled into what was a probably painfully tight bun at the top of her head. Her features were severe in the way that implied she rarely smiled.

Jowan gave her a sideways grin. "Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence."

The elf rolled her eyes. "Hello to you too, Jowan."

"How's it up in the nice mages quarters?"

She shrugged. "They keep me busy."

Jowan snorted. "I bet. Between kissing up to Irving and snogging that templar of yours, it's a wonder you have any time for lowly apprentices like us."

"Just because you're my friend doesn't mean I won't electrocute you, you know." Her voice was cold, but the corners of her mouth twitched upwards ever so slightly.

Jowan was unfazed. He tilted his head so he was looking down his nose at them and pitched his voice comically high. "I'm Nira Surana. I am practically perfect in every way. I scored higher on my spirit assessment than any other mage in twenty years. I took my Harrowing three years early."

Nira Surana. Surana. Edmund gave her a contemplative look. She was the other mage origin. And apparently, actually a competent mage. But why was she already Harrowed? The Hero wasn't supposed to undertake the Harrowing until right before Duncan's arrival to the Circle, and she'd been a full mage for a month at this point.

He didn't want to think about the possible implications.

Nira only looked amused. "I didn't come here so you could sing my praises, but it is a pleasant surprise."

Jowan groaned, biting into a leg of chicken. "Leave it to you to take mockery for a compliment. So what are you doing here?"

"I was wondering if either of you had heard the news. About what's happening down south."

"South?" Jowan asked. Edmund stilled.

"There's a war effort going on in the Wilds. The king is calling for mages to support the army. Wynne, Uldred, and six other senior mages left this morning along with a squad of templars."

"Really? How do you know about this?" Jowan asked, eyes wide with interest.

Nira shrugged. "Studying under the First Enchanter has its perks, like interesting information. You really should have accepted when he offered the role to you, Edmund."

He filed that in with the rest of the information he'd gathered: offered to study under Irving, and declined.

"Well you know me." He said with a non-non-committal shrug. "Besides, it seems to suit you."

"My dear Edmund, did you just offer the good lady a compliment?" Jowan laughed, "Watch out. Jealous is a bad look on a templar."

"Shut up, you ass." He flicked a spoonful of porridge at that mans' face. If he was gathering this correctly, Nira and Cullen were a Thing™. Which was strange, because he was sure the game had implied that Cullen and the female mage had a tentative flirationship at best by the time Duncan came around.

One more thing that was different.

"How is that going, by the way?" Jowan rounded back on Nira. "I'm sure you know what you're doing could land both of you in serious trouble if anyone actually found out."

Nira gave him a hard look that clearly communicated her willingness to electrocute him. "Whatever do you mean, apprentice? Ser Cullen simply supervises me as I study in the library, doing his duty as a templar serving the Maker."

"Leave her alone. You're hardly one to talk," Edmund said, thinking very distinctly of a certain Chantry initiate. He made a mental note to see if he couldn't find Lily somewhere around the tower. Maybe he could do something, keep things from getting out of hand?

Jowan shifted uncomfortably and returned to his dinner with renewed interest.

"I should probably go. I still have to prepare tomorrow's lesson for the new apprentices," Nira stood. Edmund felt apprehensive as she looked at him and her silver eyes showed fear. "I… I'm sure I'll see you again soon. Good luck."

That was… odd. He gave Jowan a questioning look, and the man only shrugged. "You know she's always been a little weird. I think all the special treatment has damaged her brain."

"I don't think that's how that works." Edmund frowned. That wasn't just odd. It was a warning. Nira was working close with Irving. She had access to information. She was worried.

The Harrowing. It was happening soon, then.

"Whatever. Come on, let's go to the practice hall. You've got to show me how you cast that spell earlier!"

Edmund tried to protest, but Jowan all but dragged him to the practice hall. It occurred to him that Jowan was desperate to learn, to become a better mage. The reason Jowan turned to blood magic was because he was terrified of Tranquility.

Jowan was a good guy, just not the best student, apparently. Maybe it was just the learning environment that kept him from excelling. And blood magic itself wasn't really the problem, as the games had led him to believe.

He did honestly try to recreate the spell and explain to Jowan how he did it. Over the course of an hour he failed to cast mass paralysis but succeeded in setting the curtains on fire not once, but four separate times.

Somewhere, the universe was laughing at him. He was a _firefighter, _for Christ's sake. It was almost too ironic that any time he tried to do magic something went up in flames.

"Well, on the bright side, your fire magic seems to have improved greatly," said Jowan. "I remember you used to not even be able to light a candle. You must be really worried about this Harrowing if you can't even cast straight."

He frowned. The real Edmund apparently really sucked at fire magic.

"I'll feel better once it's over with." Edmund replaced the practice staff to it's place on the rack. "Come on, let's turn in for the night."

—

Duncan looked at the looming tower. The moon was bright tonight, its glow illuminating the surface of the lake.

The senior Wardens who accompanied him had chosen to remain in the inn by the lake, deciding one Warden was enough to deliver the king's message to the mages and probably make for a quicker visit and less fuss.

A brief stop at the Circle on the king's behalf to request more mages for the army, and then off to the deep roads for reconnaissance. He feared a Blight was beginning, but the deeps would need to be inspected before they could know for certain.

For now, the tower awaited. Perhaps he might look at recruiting while he was here.

—

He'd had some weird dreams before. None of them ever felt like this, however.

The Fade wasn't green like in Inquisition or quite as brown in reality as it was in Origins, but it was strangely colorless, filled with shifting shades of grey. Half-buried pillars and strange tree-branches protruded from the ground at odd angles and statues floated in mid-air, featureless like mannequins. Edmund shuddered and forced himself to look away from them.

He followed the path set before him. Floating high in the horizon was a dark shape. The Black City, if he remembered right.

The Fade was shaped by perception, he reminded himself. He could impose his will on this reality.

Now he just needed to figure out how to actually do that.

Before long he came across "Mouse." Edmund narrowed his eyes—he knew what to expect.

Mouse gave a long-suffering sigh. "Someone else thrown to the wolves. As fresh and unprepared as ever. It isn't right that they do this, the templars. Not to you, to me, to anyone."

Edmund nodded. "Yeah, templars kinda suck." He eyed the rodent. Follow the script and play along, or…

"But they keep doing this, don't they? We're treated like rabid dogs, and we let them get away with it! It's always the same. But it's not your fault. You're in the same boat I was, aren't you?"

From a certain point of view, certainly. "Mages forced to face spirits, and spirits caged and forced to face mages. A shit deal all around."

If a rodent could frown, this one did. "I'm no spirit," True. Not a spirit, but a demon. Mouse's form glowed as he shifted to a human form and introduced himself. "Allow me to welcome you to the Fade. You can call me… well, Mouse."

"I don't have time for this," said Edmund. "Look, I know what's up. You play all meek and helpless, get my trust, I encourage you, you help me fight a rage demon. You butter me up to try and get me to let you in. Then, in a thrilling twist, you were a demon the whole time! Shocking! Only, not."

Maybe it wasn't the best idea to antagonize what was likely a very powerful demon of pride, but Edmund found himself not caring. If he didn't get help from somewhere, he was probably going to get himself killed.

He knew the script. Time to see what rules he could break.

"You…" Mouse narrowed his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice had a distinct reverberance it didn't have before. "You know?"

"Look. I don't want to have to fight you. The mages and templars caged you here to serve as a test for apprentices, right?"

Mouse didn't answer, and instead began pacing a circle around Edmund. He turned in place, keeping his front to the prowling demon.

Mouse laughed, voice significantly deeper than before. "I can see it now. There are pieces of you that don't fit. Already possessed, but not. Wearing skin not yours, but not taken."

"You can tell?" Edmund asked. If there was anyone he could get insight from, it was probably a spirit. Or demon. Whatever.

"Curious. I wonder—if I rode your body, would both remain? Or would we all shatter in the collide?"

"I'd rather we didn't find out."

Mouse laughed. "Well. Now we are at an impass. I may simply have to kill you." Edmund stilled. A death in the Fade… he remembered from the second game: death in the Fade lead to Tranquility.

"No." He surprised himself by the authority in his voice. "I want your help."

Mouse smiled. Its mouth was filled with teeth like razor blades. "A deal?"

"Of a sort." Edmund shrugged. He dated a lawyer, once. He knew how to argue. "Like you said, I don't fit. Can you put me back where I do fit?"

"No. I cannot do that."

"Then teach me magic. If I can't go back, I need better control, or to at least know what I'm doing. A Blight is coming. I need to help stop it." If he couldn't go home, he could use what he knew to change things. Make things better. And if he didn't get some serious help with controlling his new powers, he was going to burn himself alive before he saw his first genlock.

Mouse resumed pacing. "Interesting. And what, little mageling, would you offer me in return? I cannot wear your skin. What else do you have to give me?"

"Information."

Mouse growled. "I am Pride, boy, not Knowledge or Wisdom. Try again," the demon hissed, it's skin becoming more purple and scaly.

Edmund crossed his arms. If he remembered a certain egg head correctly, Pride could form from Wisdom. Maybe he could still appeal to that nature. "Exactly. You will know things no one else in the world does. No one, but me. Just think for a second! You could bribe other spirits driven by those attributes with knowledge they could find nowhere but from you. You become the authority. I know things. Not just about where I am from, but about things here that haven't even happened yet. If you help me, you could too."

The exterior of Mouse was fully shed now, and Pride loomed over him. Edmund stood very, very still.

"I accept," said Pride. Edmund couldn't bring himself to be relieved—he had, after all, made a deal with a literal demon. "You are a true mage. When faced with a test, most would answer the questions. You… you asked questions of your own."

"It helps to have a cheat sheet," said Edmund with a small smile.

Pride laughed. "Keep your wits about you, mage. True tests never end."


	2. A Bloodied Circle (Part 2)

Every morning since what he silently referred to as the Incident, he half expected to wake up at home, or in a hospital. And every morning he found himself still in the tower. The morning after the Harrowing was no different.

"Are you alright? Say something, please…" Jowan was leaning over him.

"I'm… I'm okay," he said, sitting up slowly. He was alive. So the demon had let him go, and the templars hadn't stabbed him. An excellent turn out, all things considered.

"I'm glad you're alright. They carried you in this morning. I didn't even realize you'd been gone all night." Jowan shuddered. "I've heard about apprentices who never come back from Harrowings. Is… is it really that dangerous? What was it like? I know I'm not supposed to know… but we're friends. Just a little hint and I'll stop asking, I promise."

He'd made a deal with a demon. It was going to come back and bite him in the ass, but he could at least hope it would be a long time from now.

"I had to enter the Fade."

"Really? That's it?

"Basically. And if a demon possess you, they kill you," Edmund explained. If the game was anything to go by, Duncan might be here today. Jowan might make his escape today.

"That… makes sense. They want to see if you can resist a demon and stop yourself from becoming an abomination. Thank you, for telling me. I asked Nira when she went through hers, but she wouldn't tell me. I feel better at least, knowing." Jowan sighed. "And now you get to move up to the nice mages quarters upstairs. I'm stuck here and I don't know when they'll call me for my Harrowing."

"I… I'm sure it will be any day now." Edmund said, but Jowan clearly picked up on the uncertainty in his voice.

"I've been here longer than you have! Sometimes I think they don't want to test me."

"Maybe. Maybe they're just waiting to make sure you're ready." They weren't.

"The Tranquil never go through a Harrowing," Jowan said softly. "You do the Harrowing, the Rite of Tranquility… or you die. That's what happens."

"I know, Jowan." Edmund rose from the bunk. "Look, we can talk more about this later. I should go see the First Enchanter."

"Oh, yes. I was supposed to tell you to go see Irving as soon as you woke up. I'll see you later."

—

Nira sat in the chapel, listening to the priests reciting the Chant. She offered up a prayer of her own, though she still had yet to get a straight answer out of the Sisters if the Maker even listened to elves. Still, she gave thanks that Edmund had passed his Harrowing. With luck, her friend would be waking shortly.

"Blessed art thou who exists in the sight of the Maker…" An apprentice knelt before the statue of Andraste and prayed fervently.

"Blessed art thou who walks in His steps." Nira completed the prayer. The apprentice turned to see her, and Nira recognized her as Keili.

"Oh, hello—Would you care to join me?"

Nira took a knee beside Keili, who resumed her prayer. Keili turned to her as she finished. "I recite the Maker's blessings every day. It brings me peace in troubled times."

"And are you in trouble?"

"No, not really. It's just…" Keili fidgeted with her robes, "I don't want to bore you with this."

"Are you sure? I might be able to help."

"I hope that one day, the Maker might hear us. That maybe I'll be forgiven, and this curse will be lifted."

Nira frowned. "You mean magic."

"Of course. What else?"

Nira could understand Keili's point of view, she supposed. But she also lacked the context of what not being a mage was like. All she knew was the tower, and the power inside her. "Why do you say magic is a curse?"

"Magic causes such misery. It is dangerous and vile and wicked. The Chantry must protect the world from us. Being born with something so terrible must be a punishment. I wish I could be rid of it," said Keili, staring wistfully up at the statue of the Maker's Prophet.

"There's Tranquility. But that seems a fate worse than death," said Nira.

Keili's eyes lit up. "Yes—that removes all magic, forever, doesn't it? Perhaps I shall request it."

Nira placed a hand on Keili's shoulder, a plea in her eyes. "No, Keili. You do not want that. You… you are far too pretty to be made Tranquil. You would be at terrible risk." She saw what happened to mage girls who lacked the will to say no.

Keili frowned. "Then perhaps this is simply something I must suffer through. I should go. My mentor only allows a few minutes every day for religious contemplation."

"You are not alone. You can speak to me about your fears if you feel the need, though of course there are Chantry Sisters who may be better suited to help you." Nira nodded to her and stood. "I hope you succeed in turning the Maker's gaze on you."

She made her way to the study rooms, searching for a particular tome on warding. As she browsed the shelf in question, an elf seated at one of the tables cleared his throat loudly.

"Do you need something? If not, please move. You're in my light."

Nira glanced at the elf and rolled her eyes. "Hello to you too, Eadric." She glanced at the text laid out in front of him. "'Elven Blood In Tevinter Rituals.' Isn't that book banned?"

"I got permission from the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander, don't worry. It's fascinating—our people are more attuned to magic than humans are… or at least, our ancestors were. That's why so many ancient Tevinter rituals specifically call for elven blood. With so much of our history lost, looking to Tevinter is the closest we can get for clues. I suppose we'll never really know for sure." Eadric shrugged, turning the page idly. "Maybe the Dalish elves would know, but I've never met one."

"Dalish?" She'd read something about the Dalish, but elven culture wasn't really her focus. She identified more as a mage than an elf, anyways.

"They live in the wilderness, traveling where they will. I've heard they keep the old beliefs alive."

"I wish I knew the old language, at least." Language—that was something she was good at. Her grasp of ancient Tevene was passable, but there were some ancient rituals recorded exclusively in the dead language of their ancestors.

Eadric nodded. "As do I. Perhaps one day I will have the chance to learn it. Say, are you from an alienage? I'm from a farm outside Highever. My mother worked as the cook's assistant there."

Nira frowned. "My mother was a mage apprentice; I was born to the Circle. Irving once told me I have relatives in Denerim's alienage, but I've never been there or met them. I was given to the Chantry, and then I showed subtle signs of magic when I was two years old, so… they just kept me here."

"Oh. Wow." Eadric shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter where we're from, does it? We're in the Circle."

"I suppose so." Nira spotted the book she'd been searching for and pulled it from the shelf. "I'll get out of your light now. I'll be seeing you."

"Good day."

Tome in hand, she returned to the First Enchanter's office.

But first, she made a detour to the outer hall.

Cullen was standing at his usual post, hands clasped behind his back. She smiled as she approached him, and he grinned that goofy grin of his when he saw her. As there was no one else in the hall with them, she stood on her toes to kiss his cheek.

"Fancy seeing you here," she said. As if the two of them didn't have each other's schedules and routines memorized by heart at this point.

Cullen blushed and stammered. "H-hello there…" He rubbed the back of his neck and laughed softly.

"I'll be practicing some dangerous magic later. I may require some… supervision."

At first, Cullen's interest in her had only been… a convenience. If she got a reputation as "Cullen's girl," then the other templars—the more dangerous ones, specifically—left her alone. And so long as the Knight Commander didn't realize what was up, most everyone else was content to let them be.

But as time went on, she realized that she had actually developed feelings for him. He was charming, and a gentleman—never once asking more of her than she was willing to give. Often he was content to simply sit and read with her in silence, or play a friendly game of chess. And he made her laugh.

"Well. I must… c-certainly do my duty. We wouldn't want any, ah, out of control spells, w-would we?"

Nira giggled. That stutter would always be adorable. "Same time as always?"

"Never miss it." In one of his occasional moments of confidence, he lifted her chin, gently, so she could pull away if she wanted. When she did not, he pressed a kiss to her mouth.

"I need to go, Irving's expecting me. I'll see you later." She turned and left her templar blushing in the hall.

—

The Knight Commander had not taken the king's request well, as Dunacn expected. The Knight Commander and First Enchanter argued around him while he waited for them to come to a decision.

"So many have already gone to Ostagar—Wynne, Uldred, and most of the senior mages! We've committed enough of our own to this war effort—"

"'Your own?' Since when have you felt such kinship with the mages, Greagoir? Or are you afraid to let the mages out from under Chantry supervision where they can actually use their Maker-given powers?" Irving crossed his arms in irritation.

Greagoir matched his posture. "How dare you suggest—"

Dunan looked past the arguing men to see a young dark-haired man leaning in the doorway, looking on with great amusement. Duncan cleared his throat loudly. "Gentlemen, please. Irving, there is someone here to see you."

"Don't mind me. I was just about to pull up a chair and some snacks," said the younger mage with a shrug.

Greagoir scowled. "This one has always been insolent."

"Come now, Knight Commander. This is our newest brother in the Circle." The First Enchanter motioned that the young man should join them.

Dunan glanced over the man as he approached. He was tall and handsome, and despite his lean build there was strength in him. Irving had mentioned this mage when Duncan first arrived—one of the fastest Harrowing's in the Circle's history, apparently. He definitely held promise. "This is…?"

"Yes. This is he." Irving nodded. Irving had said that despite the mage's gifts, his temperament was not well suited to the Circle. Duncan hoped to take the man as a recruit, if the Knight Commander would allow it.

"Well Irving. You're obviously busy. We will discuss this later." Greagoir left the room, shaking his head as he went.

"Of course. Now then… where was I? Ah, yes. This is Duncan, of the Grey Wardens. Duncan, this is Edmund Amell."

The man inclined his head in Duncan's direction. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise."

"You have heard about the war brewing in the south, I expect," said Irving, "Duncan is here recruiting mages to join the kings army at Ostagar."

"To combat the darkspawn, yes, I am aware. You'll need all the help you can get, I expect," said Edmund.

"That is correct. The power you mages wield is an asset to any army. Your spells are very effective against large groups of mindless darkspawn," said Duncan, "I fear if we do not drive them back, we may see another Blight."

"It's already too late." The mage sighed. Duncan raised a brow, but before the young man could elaborate his thoughts, the First Enchanter spoke.

"Duncan, you worry the poor boy with talk of Blights and darkspawn. This is a happy day for him," Irving said. A pale elven mage walked in, carrying a dusty tome in her arms. She cast them a curious look, but set the tome on the First Enchanter's desk without a word.

"We live in troubled times, my friend," Duncan warned.

"We should seize moments of levity, especially in troubled times." Irving nodded to the elven mage. "Thank you, Nira. You have been a great help. You may take the rest of the day for independent study."

"Of course, First Enchanter."

Duncan recalled Irving mentioning her, as well—a gifted mage who knew nothing but Circle life. Irving was grooming her to someday take over his position, or perhaps take on the role of Grand Enchanter some day.

"Now," Irving turned back to Edmund, "The Harrowing is behind you. Your phylactery was sent to Denerim. You are officially a mage within the Circle of Magi."

Edmund let out a long sigh, tensing visibly at the mention of the phylactery. "Thank you. It's good… to have this behind me."

Irving nodded in approval. "I present you with your robes, your staff, and a ring bearing the Circle's insignia." Irving took the items in question off his desk and held them out to the young man. "Wear them proudly, for you have earned them."

"It doesn't feel like it," Edmund muttered softly. Irving frowned, but continued.

"It goes without saying that you shall not discuss the Harrowing with those who have not undergone the rite. Now… take your time to rest, or study in the library. The day is yours."

"If you say so."

Irving glanced at Duncan, seeming to now remember that he was in the room. "Would you be so kind as to escort Duncan back to his room, child?"

"Of course." Edmund smiled.

"If you'll both excuse me, I have matters to discuss with Geagoir," Irving said, waving them off.

Duncan followed the young man down the hall. "Thank you for walking with me. I am glad for the company."

"It's no burden. Besides, I wanted to talk with you more," said Edmund.

"Yes? What about?"

"I…" the young man paused, seeming to be experiencing some inner argument with himself. "Nothing much. Just, I'm honored to meet you, is all."

"Thank you, dear boy." Duncan smiled. It was nice to hear, especially when he faced hostility as a Warden more often then not.

They walked in silence a few paces more until the young man could apparently no longer contain himself. "I want to join the Grey Wardens," he blurted suddenly.

Duncan raised a brow at him. "Oh, do you?"

Edmund nodded, looking at Duncan with intensity. "The darkspawn are a menace. And I don't want to let someone do the fighting for me, not I have power and knowledge that could help stop them and save lives."

"But you could do that simply by requesting to join the kings army. Why, specifically the Wardens?" Duncan watched the young man carefully.

"Because I know. I know this is a Blight, and I know there aren't enough Wardens in Ferelden right now to stop it. You need all the help you can get. You need me." Edmund squared his shoulder, voice resolute.

If nothing else, the boy already sounded like a Warden. But Duncan narrowed his eyes at the mage. "How could you know this is a Blight? It is only rumor at best."

Edmund laughed. "Recruit me, and I might even tell you. Oh, look. This is your room." Edmund opened a door on the hall, gesturing that Duncan should enter. It was a very blatant attempt to not answer that question. Another mage was standing a ways down the hall with the elven woman from earlier, both of whom were clearly waiting on Edmund. "Look, I'll… talk to you later. Probably."

"Yes. I expect so," Duncan mused. He watched the dark-haired man run off to his fellows and shook his head. He would make for an… interesting Warden.

—

Edmund sincerely hoped he hadn't totally botched things with Duncan by going off-script. As it was, he prepared for the imminent "quest" before him. Jowan was fidgeting so nervously he may as well have had an exclamation point over his head.

What threw him was the fact that Nira was standing next to Jowan, though she seemed more annoyed than anxious. He supposed the three of them—Nira, Jowan, and Edmund—were friends, and it made sense Jowan would include her in this too if he trusted her.

"I'm glad I caught you too," said Jowan, "Are you done talking with Irving?"

"For now, at least." Edmund shrugged.

"I need to talk to you. To you both," said Jowan. "Ed, do you remember what we talked about this morning?"

Nira raised a brow at the apprentice's hushed tone. "Why are you whispering? It looks very suspicious."

Jowan shushed her, looking around in wild alarm. "I—I just want to make sure we're not overheard is all. We should go somewhere else. I don't feel safe talking here."

"You're starting to worry me, Jowan," said Nira.

"I've been… troubled. I'll explain, just follow me." Without another word he turned, leading them towards the chapel. He lead them to where Lily stood in a prayer alcove. "We should be safe here."

"In the chapel? The templar's favorite haunt?" Nira said, looking around. A few other templars, mages, and priests were occupying the rows of seats, but none of them paid their conspiratorial group any mind.

"We can see everyone from here. Anyone comes close or looks our way, we can change the subject," said Lily.

"I've seen you around before." Edmund said. Technically true. She was always just a collection of pixels, though.

Lily nodded. "I often attend my duties in this chapel. Perhaps that is why I seem familiar."

Jowan blushed ever so slightly. "I told you both a few months ago that I… met a girl. This is Lily."

Nira looked rightly scandalized. "Jowan, you've been giving me shit about Cullen for months now, and this entire time you've been carrying on with an initiate? Shame on you." She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. Again, her voice was cold, but her eyes betrayed fondness.

Edmund gave Lily a sad look. "My condolences, Lily." _For everything that's about to happen. _

Jowan chuckled, "Very funny, Ed."

"So what is this all about? You can't have pulled us here just to have a friendly chat about love." Nira smirked. "Need me to tell you about the birds and the bees? You are old enough to know now, after all."

Edmund wondered idly how much time Nira spent around Wynne.

"Maker, no!" Lily and Jowan cried in unison.

Jowan sighed. "Remember when I said that I didn't think they wanted to give me my Harrowing? I know why. They're going to make me Tranquil." Jowan's voice was shaking. "They'll take everything that I am from me—my dreams, my hopes, fears… my love for Lily. All gone…"

Nira's eyes softened. "Oh, Jowan…"

Jowan fidgeted with his robes. "They'll extinguish my humanity! I'll just be a husk, breathing and existing, but not truly living."

"But why would they do this? You're not the strongest mage, certainly, but you're hardly a danger." Nira said, disbelief all over her features.

"Thank you for your endowment of my mediocrity. There's… a rumor about me. Some people think I'm a blood mage."

An accurate rumor, Edmund thought silently.

"And so they think making you a Circle mage will endanger everyone." Nira muttered, piecing it together for herself. "How did you find out about this?"

"I saw the document on Greagoir's table. It authorized the rite on Jowan, and Irving had signed it." Lily explained.

"Do you know anything about this, oh Irving's-right-hand?" Edmund side-eyed Nira.

She shook her head, clearly shaken by the thought. "No. Believe it or not, Irving doesn't tell me everything. He knows Jowan's my friend, and Irving's like a father to me. He probably didn't… didn't want to hurt me."

"There's only one thing to do then, isn't there?" Edmund said. The three turned to look at him expectantly. "Jowan needs to escape."

Nira looked completely aghast at the thought. "Are you insane? There has to be a better way, I wouldn't reach for apostasy first. I could talk to Irving, try to convince him to change his mind, tell him Jowan isn't dangerous."

Edmund looked at Nira and recalled the mage origin was faced with a choice. Assist Jowan, or turn him in to Irving. His gut told him Nira was going to go for the latter. He sighed—in the long run, it didn't really matter.

"I have a sinking feeling that Irving won't be changing his mind," said Edmund.

"I need to destroy my phylactery. Without it, they can't track me down. We need your help—both of you. Lily and I can't do this on our own."

"Give us your word that you will help us and we'll tell you what we intend," said Lily.

"I-I…" Nira stammered, then looked away from the young couple to stare at the wall. "Let me talk to Irving first. Please. I can get him to see that these rumors are foolishness and nothing more. There will be no need for any of this."

Jowan looked pained. "He won't listen. Look, try if you like, but… don't take too long. And try not to be suspicious. If he finds out, we're done for."

"It will be fine, Jowan. I promise." Nira gave a weak smile and then all but fled the chapel. The three of them watched her go in silence. Edmund knew she would sell them out.

Here goes nothing. "I'll help you," Edmund offered.

Lily breathed an audible sigh of relief. "Thank you. We will never forget this."

"Right. So we need to get into the repository, but don't have the keys. I'll talk to Owain and see about getting a rod of fire to melt through the locks instead. I'll go, you two stay here. Wait and see if Nira comes back and what she has to say."

Jowan blinked. "Wow. You came up with that… really fast. Been planning your own escape, have you?"

"Of a sort. I'll be back."

Edmund had made a very pointed effort to avoid the Tranquil during his month in the tower. It wasn't as easy as it sounded, as they were kind of… all over. Quiet so that they were very easily overlooked, but he saw them enough to be unsettled by the sheer number of them that roamed the tower, performing tasks like robots.

Owain looked at him with emptiness as he approached. Edmund tried very hard not to look at the sunburst brand on the man's forehead. "Owain. I need a rod of fire, please." he said shortly.

"Rods of fire serve many purposes. Why do you wish to acquire this particular item?"

"I need it for research on… burning things."

"Here is the form—'Request for Rod of Fire'." Owain passed him a slip of paper. He was uncannily reminded of when he had to get his parents to sign permission slips in elementary school. Except those were in a language he could actually, you know, read. "Please have it signed and dated by a Senior Enchanter. I will release the rod to you once I have the signed form."

"I'll be back soon."

Edmund did not wait for the Tranquil's farewell and turned, heading towards the door to the Circle's storage tunnels.

"Senior Enchanter Leorah," He said as he approached an older elven woman who stood by the doors. She turned her attention to him. "I'm here to help with your… little problem." He gave a sidelong glance to the storage door. The elven woman's face paled.

"You—what? How do you know about—"

"Not important how I know. What's important is that Irving doesn't find out, right?" Edmund felt a little bad about blackmail, but he needed this form signed somehow. And there was no way he was going to Irving about this. "Sign this request form for me, and I'll deal with the spiders for you."

"You're quite brazen, aren't you?" Leorah frowned at him.

"Look, if you don't want my help…" Edmund started to turn away, but the enchanter caught him by the arm.

"Wait! Wait. Let me see that form." She all but took the form from his hands. "A rod of fire, hm? Fine. Clear out those spiders, and not a word to Irving."

"My lips are sealed." Edmund turned. Time to kill some spiders. Some very, very large spiders. At least it would be a change to practice his spellwork without anyone watching.

Edmund shuddered. Welcome to Thedas.

—

She ran into the unfamiliar man she'd seen conversing with Irving and Greagoir earlier as she headed to the First Enchanter's office. Despite his armor he was no templar—he lacked the distinct smell of lyrium.

Nira would not have spoken to him if he had not first addressed her.

"Greetings, you are Irving's pupil, are you not? I saw you earlier and regretted that we did not have the chance to speak."

"I—yes. My name is Nira Surana." Nira bowed the the man. He was Irving's friend, and worthy of at least passing respect.

The man returned the bow. "Well met. I am Duncan of the Grey Wardens."

"May I assist you, Ser Duncan?"

"I'm simply enjoying the splendors of the library. The Circle of Magi is fortunate to have so many wonderful books at its disposal."

"Are you looking for anything in particular?" She eyed the tome the man had displayed on the podium. _Effective Magics and Tonics: Slowing the Blight._

"Perhaps. I shan't bore you with the details, though. You seem preoccupied. Might I ask what you're doing?"

Nira shrugged, running the index of the library in the back of her mind. "I'm simply on my way to see Irving, I had a question for him pertaining to the finer points of countermeasures to the ambient effects of reverse-warded glyphs." She learned this strategy early on—if a non-mage was bothering you, spout advanced magical theory. Their eyes glazed over before the fifth word.

Duncan, however, simply smiled. "I won't keep you overlong, then. I simply wanted to ask you a few questions about the Circle."

"I can spare a few moments, I suppose."

"Thank you. I seldom get the chance to speak with members of the Circle. A mage like yourself must have opinions on the current affairs such as the war. As you know, the king is gathering an army."

"Yes, I'd heard. Mages will likely be an asset in the war."

"You do not fear using the power at your disposal, do you? It is dangerous, yes, but necessary," Duncan said, and Nira felt she was being very carefully observed.

"So long as that power is used responsibly. Magic is dangerous in any situation, and demands to be treated with respect and care, especially on the field of battle."

Duncan laughed softly. "You sound just like Irving. He has taught you well. Well, I'm sure you've better things to do than chat with an old man." The Warden waved her off.

"We don't have much in the way of information on the Blights, but everything we have on darkspawn and the Blight plague should be in the study lounge, down the hall." She said.

Duncan raised a brow in surprise. "Thank you. And good day, young lady."

Nire continued on her path to the First Enchanter's office. He seemed a decent enough man, and she could easily see him getting along well with Irving, even if he was a little odd.

"Ah, child." The First Enchanter turned to her as she entered the office. "I can see you are troubled. What is the matter?"

Nira shuffled in place, not sure exactly how to ask her question. "When will Jowan go through his Harrowing?"

"When he is ready."

"He is ready now," Nira said. Jowan was certainly not the most gifted mage, and he all but paled in Edmund's shadow, but he was competent.

"I am sure you think so, but it is not your place to decide," Irving waved a hand dismissively, but aimed a questioning look her way. "Why do you ask?"

"Jowan is afraid he'd going to be made Tranquil." Nira had seen the Tranquil all her life. Most treated them like little more than furniture. She saw them as a threat—a warning at what the Chantry held over them. She did not want to see one of her oldest friends shuffle about the tower in a haze of nothing.

"And how does he know this? I suppose that young initiate he dallies about with revealed it to him."

Nira's jaw fell open slightly.

Irving laughed softly. "You think I did not know? I know about your young templar, as well, though I understand why you keep him close. He is a convenient shield against more unsavory elements, and as he's taken no specific… vows, on the matter, I have no need to report him to Greagoir." Irving shook his head. "I did not become First Enchanter by keeping my eyes and ears shut. You should learn from that, child."

Nira sighed. Lily, as an initiate in the Chantry, would have taken "those specific vows." And thus violated Chantry law. But Tranquility for Jowan over an ill-advised romance… no, there was something else at play here. "Why, Irving? Why are you doing this to Jowan?"

"Greagoir says he has proof—eye-witness testimony—that Jowan has been practicing blood magic. I cannot say more." Nira's blood went cold. No. Jowan would never, _could _never bring himself to consider the forbidden arts. "Were it up to me, things would be different. But the Chantry—" Irving sighed, placing a hand on Nira's shoulder in a gesture of comfort. "I am sorry, child. This Rite of Tranquility will happen."

Her throat felt almost too dry to speak. "You… you're absolutely sure? There's no way this could be a mistake? Jowan has for-sure been… practicing blood magic?"

"There is irrefutable evidence. I am sorry, I know the lad is dear to you."

"Then I suppose I must abide by the Circle's will." It was out of her hands. The Circle—and the Chantry by extension—always won out in the end.

"It must be done. It's not such a bad thing. Jowan will come to terms with it, as will you."

Come to terms with it. That was one way to put "no longer able to feel emotion." Nira looked up at her mentor, wondering how many friends he had watched undergo the Rite in his years. Too many, likely. He didn't want this any more than she did.

He did what was right, even if it hurt. She had to have that same strength.

"First Enchanter… there's something you should know. Jowan is planning on escaping the tower."

Irving frowned. "He asked you to assist him, and instead you came to me. You realize Jowan is breaking the Circle's rules. I commend your loyalty." Nira didn't feel worthy of commendation. She felt sick to her stomach. "If Jowan wishes to destroy his phylactery and escape, help him do it."

"Do you realize what you're asking?" Nira asked.

"I could simply report them to the templars, but Lily has also broken her vows and must face like consequences. For this, we need irrefutable proof of her crime. The Chantry will stand behind her, claiming she has been framed or is in the thrall of a blood mage. There must be no doubt in their minds that she helped him voluntarily."

"You're right." Nira straightened her posture. She was doing the right thing here. "If we must lose one of our own, we should not let another equally guilty hide behind the Chantry while our own suffers."

"Astute as always, Surana. That is the kind of thinking necessary of a First Enchanter." Irving's face practically glowed with pride. "Every so often, we must remind the Chantry their members are not as perfect as they pretend. Tell Jowan and Lily you will aid them. Help them enter the repository, if that is what they intend."

"We will catch them red-handed."

"No one will be able to dispute the severity of their crimes." Irving nodded. "Go. Convince them that you will risk all for their cause. I will wait outside the repository with a contingent of templars. Let them see the mischief into which their initiate has led our student."

"Of course, Irving." Nira turned to go, but stopped short, and looked back. "First Enchanter… they didn't just come to me. Edmund knows as well. And… he committed to help them escape, almost no questions asked."

Irving sighed, sadness coating his words. "Ah, of course. Jowan and Edmund have always been thick as thieves, and Edmund more than a touch rebellious. I'd hoped his Harrowing would mellow him, but alas…" said Irving, "If Edmund does not bring this matter to me, I cannot guarantee that he will not face severe punishment."

"I… I understand, First Enchanter."

"Now go on. Perform well, and your dedication will be rewarded."

Nira turned towards the chapel, determination guiding her steps. She was a Mage of the Circle. She would remain loyal.

She encountered Edmund in the hallway. She stopped in her tracks, blinking at the sight of him. His hair was pulled into a sloppy bun at the back of his head and seemed to be… smoking, just every so slightly. The shoulder of his robe was torn and his arm was bleeding onto the tile.

"Maker, Edmund. What happened to you?" She crossed the few paces to him, bringing a healing spell to her fingertips and pressing it to his wound. It looked like a bite mark. A very large bite mark.

"I got into an argument with a rather disagreeable storage crate," he deadpanned. "You made your choice, then?" His eyes were hard. Nira shifted. He looked almost as if he knew.

"I spoke with the First Enchanter. Jowan was right; Irving wouldn't listen. They plan on going ahead with the Rite." She turned away as soon as she was finished with his wound. "Come on. Let's get back to Jowan and Lily."


	3. A Bloodied Circle (Part 3)

Edmund turned the rod of fire over idly in his hand. Why would mages need an item to produce fire when they could just conjure it straight out of their hands? Wasn't it kind of redundant?

Jowan breathed a visible sigh of relief when he saw Edmund and Nira approach their little corner of the chapel. "Waiting makes me so nervous. What did Irving have to say?"

"You were right. Irving won't change his mind about the Rite. Let's get you out of here," said Nira. Edmund had to give her points—if he didn't already know she was lying, he might not have suspected her.

"I have the rod of fire."

"That was quick!"

"To the repository, then," said Lily, leading the way. "Freedom awaits."

Edmund heard Jowan whispering to Nira as they walked, "I'm so nervous things will go wrong."

"What will you do after you escape?" asked the elven mage.

"Lily and I will get married somewhere… away from the Circle and it's rules." Jowan got a far-away look in his eyes. Poor guy actually believed they had a chance.

"Perhaps in the outskirts of Ferelden." Lily lightly touched her lover's hand with her own.

"Or in Orlais. Just… far from here. We'll live a quiet life, away from magic. Maybe we can buy a farm one day."

"Maybe look at heading to Rivain," Edmund added absent-mindedly. "They're not so strict about magic up there, and the Chantry has less influence. Though they do have more pirates." Though if he remembered correctly, the Circle in Dairsmuid did get completely demolished in the mage-templar conflict. A problem to look at later, provided he lived to see it.

He needed to get a notebook soon, and write down everything he could remember about the game, every stray piece of lore. He had an excellent memory, but he didn't want to risk forgetting, and he lacked access to the internet for answers. If he could use what he knew to save lives…

"That's an interesting thought," said Jowan. "For now let's just concentrate on what we're doing."

They reached the repository, which was suspiciously un-guarded. Lily gave her obligatory about the Victims Door. Lily primed the door with the password, and Nira's hands came alight with magic as she sent a bolt of arcane energy to the wood.

The handle turned of its own volition, and Edmund pushed the door open.

Lily approached the next door and looked back at Edmund with excitement. "You have the rod, yes? Melt the locks off!" It wouldn't work, but it also wouldn't hurt anything to try. "What's the matter? Why isn't it working?"

"Lily… something's not right… I can't cast spells in here. Nothing works." Jowan waved his hands uselessly.

Nira moved to inspect the door. "There are wards carved into the stone, a sort of combination of how the templars nullify magic and the spells we learn that can disrupt spell casting," she said, tracing the runes. "If you gave me a week I could find an override. But we don't have that kind of time."

"I should have guessed!" bemoaned Lily, "Why would Greagoir and Irving use simple keys for such a door? Because magical keys don't work. How do you keep mages away from something? Make their powers completed worthless! That's it then, we're finished. We can't get in."

"There's a door just over there that leads to a different section of the repository where dangerous magical artifacts are kept. We might find a way in to the phylactery chamber through there," said Edmund, starting to the door in question.

He wondered why this door wasn't warded the same way. Because it actually needed accessed on occasion? But the phylactery chamber would need accessed whenever a new apprentice was brought to the tower. He sighed—don't question real-life plot holes, especially when they're convenient.

He threaded the tiniest bit of mana into the rod of fire, and it sparked to life. Rather than just casting a cone of flame, like it did in the game, it formed a small intense tongue of blue flame. It reminded him of welding tools.

He set to work on the locks, melting through in short enough order. He nudged the door open and prepared his staff in his hand. "There will be sentinels guarding the hall. They will try to stop us."

"You're… very prepared for this." Nira noted, also readying her staff.

Edmund just shrugged. "Just call it intuition. Let's go."

After his… encounter, with the spiders in the storage room, Edmund felt he had a more reasonable grasp of his abilities. And he wasn't entirely sure his bargain with Pride didn't have anything to do with it, either.

As it was, he was reasonably sure he wouldn't hit anyone on his side.

He caught the first sentinel in a blast of fire. It stumbled forwards a few more paces before crashing to the floor, metal joins melting together.

The second sentinel charged at them. Nira's body let out a burst of magic, and the sentinel stopped, then fell, a motionless suit of armor.

Edmund gave her a questioning look.

"The sentinels are clearly controlled with a similar spell to the Animate Dead enchantment, only modified for specific activation and attuned to metal, not flesh. Disable or disrupt the enchantment, it's just armor."

Edmund tried that particular trick with the next sentinels they encountered. While Nira's dropped harmlessly to the floor, the one he targeted… kind of exploded. He sighed, and just decided to pretend he meant to do that.

He would just settle for setting them on fire.

The artifact room was a crowded space. It reminded him of Dumbledore's office, actually, with curious gizmos and nick-knacks lining every shelf and table. "I wonder what all these things do," he wondered, eyeing a shelf of multicolored glowing crystals.

"All of these things are powerful and dangerous, likely connected to dark magics," Nira said softly, eyeing the artifacts around them with open wariness. "Don't touch anything."

"Agreed," said Lily.

Edmund ignored them and approached the prophesying statue.

"There's something odd about that statue," said Jowan at his side.

"Greetings," the statue spoke. Even though he was prepared for it, the effect was distinctly unsettling.

"Maker's breath! Did it just say something?" Jowan sputtered.

The statue of Eleni Zinovia gave her speech, and Edmund found himself mouthing the words as she spoke.

Jowan prodded the statue with a few questions, while Nira and Lily warned them off of it.

"Eleni Zinovia," Edmund addressed the statue. It had no eyes to look at him with, but he distinctly felt its focus shift to him. "What do you see of me?" Pride had noticed something out of place. Maybe she would, too.

"An untethered soul, sundered from heart and home. A hermit crab changes the shell, but stays the same within."

"And the original shell?"

"Lies beyond my vision."

"Bah, it's all ambiguous rubbish. It could mean anything," scoffed Jowan. "I can do it too, see? The sun grows dark, but lo! Here comes the dawn."

Edmund glanced at Jowan. _The night is long and the path is dark. Look to the sky, for one day soon the dawn will come. _Huh. Maybe Jowan had a little prophet in him.

Nah. Probably just a narrative coincidence.

"Stop talking to it, please, both of you!" Lily begged.

"These things are locked away for a reason. Let's leave it alone." Nira turned, surveying the rest of the room and approaching the sagging wall. "I think the phylactery chamber should be on the other side of the wall behind this bookcase. And the wall looks like it could come down at any moment."

"Hah, brilliant!" said Jowan. "We just need to find something that can knock it down. Here, Edmund, help me shift this bookcase."

The two men shifted the bookcase while Nira inspected the amplification artifact. "This is an Auxiliaum Incantatiem, an old Tevinter artifact meant for amplifying arcane effects, though some scholars theorize they date back to ancient elven times. I've read all about them. They're incredibly rare. The last official record of them is of Archon Vespasian in the Glory Age utilizing one for—"

"Hold your horses, Hermione," said Edmund, rolling his eyes.

"—what?" Nira blinked at him.

"Nothing. Just, get out of the way." Edmund moved to stand behind the artifact, aiming the rod through it.

The resulting explosion didn't just collapse the wall—it shattered it. Shrapnel flew about the chamber, and they would have been hit if not for Nira's quickly erected barrier enveloping them.

Several book shelves were alight with fire. Nira conjured ice to douse the flame and turned an incredulous look to Edmund. "I swear, what is it with you and fire recently?"

Edmund laughed nervously. "Just expanding my toolkit, is all. It's all under control, ok?"

"Well, let's not do that again, please," said Jowan nervously. "The whole point is to not draw attention to ourselves, remember? I'd be surprised if the entire tower didn't hear that blast."

Edmund shrugged. They were going to get busted, anyways. "It's the Circle, Jowan. Explosions are a fairly regular occurrence around here. Now, shall we?"

The next room was the phylactery chamber itself. There was snow collected around the walls and icicles tanning from the shelves. He should be cold, standing in that room, but he felt no different. Perk of being a fire mage, maybe?

"We must find Jowan's phylactery quickly," said Lily.

"Pity ours have been sent to Denerim, yeah?" Edmund said with a glance to Nira, who did not meet his eyes.

"Would you destroy yours too, if it were here?" asked Jowan.

Edmund said "yes" at the exact same time Nira said "no."

"You could still escape," Lily said to Edmund, "I don't think they'd be able to catch you. You'd know how to evade them. You're clever… not like me."

Lily had one thing right—she wasn't clever. Kind, but not clever. Honestly, their escape plan was doomed even if Irving and Greagoir didn't meet them outside the door. The phylactery would be destroyed, sure, but how did they plan on getting out of the tower itself? The only door out was heavily guarded and required not only keys to open, but at least five men to actually move the massive doors, and Jowan likely escaped alone through blood magic.

"Let's just find the phylactery," Nira said, leading the inspection of the room.

Edmund browsed the shelves of red vials. They were all clearly labeled, but he still couldn't read the script.

"Here it is!" Lily called out. The three mages moved to where she stood, opening a small case.

"That's my phylactery! You found it!" Jowan took the vial in his hands, turning the glass over in inspection. "I can't believe this tiny vial is all that stands between me and freedom. So fragile… so easy just to be rid of it… to end it's hold over me…" Jowan dropped the vial on the ground. Edmund snapped his fingers, and small flames began to burn up the liquid. "… and I am free."

"Then let's move." Edmund stomped out the fire and turned to the exit.

"Jowan, I…" Nira's voice was quiet, but echoed of the chamber walls.

"What is it?"

"… nothing. I'll just miss you, is all." Her gaze was fixed on the floor.

Jowan didn't seem to notice her shame. "I'll miss you too. But we don't have much time, let's go."

They climbed the steps of the stairs, and Edmund felt uncomfortable doubt overtake him. There was only one mage helping Jowan in the game, not two. What if Duncan didn't recruit him? What if he recruited Nira instead? She would probably make a good Grey Warden. She was a powerful mage, and dutiful. He was a pretender who could barely keep from setting his own pants on fire.

Jowan let out a triumphal laugh as they exited the basement. "We did it, I can't believe it!" The room was suspiciously empty, but that would change in a moment. Already Edmund could hear the approaching footfalls of men in armor. Jowan turned back to Edmund and Nira. "Thank you both so much… we could have never—"

"So what you said is true, Irving." Greagoir lead the First Enchanter into the hall, and at least a dozen templars followed behind them. Cullen stood among them, Edmund noted.

"Gr-Greagoir," Lily stammered, taking in the scene before them.

"An initiate, conspiring with a blood mage. I'm disappointed, Lily. She seems shocked, but fully in control of her own mind. Not a thrall of the blood mage, then." Greagoir glanced at Irving. "You were right, Irving. The initiate has betrayed us. The Chantry will not let this go unpunished." Greagoir eyed Edmund and Nira next. "And this one, newly a mage, and already flouting the rules of the Circle. And your own assistant is involved, no less!"

"It's not their fault!" Jowan cried, positioning himself in front of them. "This was my idea!"

"I am disappointed in you, Edmund. You could have told me what you knew of this plan, but you did not." Irving shook his head in disappointment. "But Nira is here under my orders, Greagoir. I take full responsibility for her actions."

"You—wait, you… you led us into a trap?" Jowan turned, such heartbreak on his face that Edmund even looked away.

"Jowan… I'm so sorry, I—"

"Don't you dare speak to me!" Jowan stepped away from her, reviled.

"Enough!" said Greagoir. "As Knight Commander of the templars assembled, I sentence this blood mage to death. And the initiate has scorned the chantry and her vows. Take her to Aeonar."

Edmund felt time slow as Jowan went for a knife he'd lifted from a sentinel. He could stop Jowan. He knew what was about to happen. He could grab Jowan, hold him so he couldn't do anything. Eamon wouldn't be poisoned, Connor wouldn't get possessed, and the people of Redcliffe wouldn't have to fear the undead.

But Loghain would still make an attempt on Eamons life, that was certain. And if he didn't use Jowan to do it… Edmund wouldn't know how to stop it. There was no way he could save everybody. He had to keep the story close to where he could predict it.

"The… the mage's prison. No… please, no. Not there!" Lily backed away hiding behind Jowan from the approaching templars.

He stood by and watched as Jowan slashed his palm. "No! I won't let you touch her!" Power gathered around Jowan, and when he unleashed it, all the templars and the First Enchanter collapsed like puppets cut from their strings. A pool of blood started forming around Cullen.

Edmund stood to the side, watching as Nira shook herself out of her horror and rushed to the templar's aid, healing magic ready at her fingers, and Lily backed away.

"By the Maker… blood magic! H-how could you? You said you never—"

"I admit, I… I dabbled! I thought it would make me a better mage."

"Blood magic is evil, Jowan. It corrupts people, changes them…"

"I'm going to give it up. All magic. I just want to be with you, Lily. Please, come with me," Jowan begged.

Lily turned her face away. "I trusted you. I was ready to sacrifice everything for you. I… I don't know who you are, blood mage."

Jowan fled.

—

Duncan followed the sound of the chaos down to the basement entrance to find a full squadron of templars, the Knight Commander, and First Enchanter, on the ground holding their heads as Nira Surana and Edmund Amell aided them to their feet. He halted in the doorway, observing the situation.

"As good as can be expected, given the circumstances!" Greagoir was calling out, "If you had let me act sooner, this would not have happened. Now we have a blood mage on the loose with no way to track him down!"

"He can't have gone far," said Nira. "You could still capture him."

"Believe me, we will use our every resource. Where is the girl?"

Duncan watched as a priestess emerged from her hiding place behind the stairwell. "I… I am here, sir."

"You helped a blood mage! Look at all he's hurt."

"Lily did not know Jowan was a blood mage," Edmund said, crossing his arms. Duncan saw the young man glance in his direction, the first to become aware of his presence. Almost like he expected Duncan to be there.

Lily held up a hand. "You've been a friend, but you needn't defend me any longer. Knight Commander, I… I was wrong. I was an accomplice to a… a blood mage. I will accept any punishment you see fit. Even… even Aeonar."

Greagoir motioned to the few templars who were on their feet. "Get her out of my sight." He turned to the two mages. "You two. You were in a repository full of magics that were locked away for a reason."

"Did you take anything from the repository?" Irving asked.

"No, First Enchanter," said Nira.

"Very well."

"Bah, these antics have made a mockery of the Circle! What are we to do?"

"I simply did as I was told." Nira moved to stand slightly behind Irving.

"As I said, Nira was working under my orders."

"And this improves the situation? The repository is off limits to all, save for you and me!"

Irving crossed his arms. "I had my reasons. I take full responsibility for Nira's actions. Though I cannot say the same for the second accomplice."

All eyes turned to Edmund. Greagoir directed his ire at the young man, instead.

"Do what you like," Edmund shrugged, nonchalant. "I stand by my decision to help Jowan."

Greagoir scowled, taking a threatening step towards the mage. "You helped a blood mage escape. All our prevention measures are for naught—because of you!"

Duncan stepped fully into the hall, inserting himself into the situation. "Knight Commander, if I may…" Greagoir gave him an irritated look, but did not interrupt. "I am not only looking for mages to join the kings army. I am also recruiting for the Grey Wardens." Duncan eyed the two young mages before him. Nira, at worst, would likely face solitary confinement, but otherwise she had a future in the Circle. Edmund's fate was less secure, and he had already expressed an interest in the Wardens. His skills should not go to waste. "Irving spoke highly of this young man, and I would like him to join the Warden ranks."

Edmund actually breathed a sigh of relief.

"Duncan, this mage has assisted a maleficar, and shown a repeated lack of regard for the Circle's rules," said Irving.

Greagoir nodded. "He is a danger. To all of us."

Duncan placed a hand on the young man's shoulder. "It is a rare person who risks all for a friend in need. I stand by my decision. I will recruit this mage."

"No!" Greagoir snarled, "I refuse to let this go unpunished!"

"As a Grey Warden Recruit, it is no longer within your power to punish me, Knight Commander," said Edmund, a smirk on his face. "That privilege is reserved for my new commanding officer, here."

"Greagoir, mages are needed. This mage is needed. Worse things plague this world than blood mages—you know that. I take this young mage under my wing and bear all responsibility for his actions."

Greagoir shook his head. "A blood mage escapes, his accomplice is not only unpunished, but is rewarded by becoming a Grey Warden. Are our rules nothing? Have we lost all authority over our mages? This does not bode well, Irving."

Irving sighed, exhaustion showing on his aged face. "Enough. We have no more say in the matter."

"For whatever it's worth, thanks for everything, Irving. It's been a pleasure. And I expect I'll see you again sooner than you expect." Edmund inclined his head respectfully to the First Enchanter.

Irving sighed. "Be proud, child. You are luckier than you know."

"Come," Duncan said, "your new life awaits."

"From the frying pan to the fire," Edmund muttered. "Give me a moment to grab a few items, and we'll be off."

The young man left to gather his belongings. Duncan turned back to Irving and Greagoir, who were focused now on the elven mage.

"Irving, your meddling in this affair has made this more difficult than it needed to be. There must be consequences," Greagoir said.

"Nira did her duty by reporting Jowan to me as soon as she learned of his schemes, proving her loyalty to the Circle. Furthermore, she used her gifts to heal us after the blood mage attacked. As I said before, I will bear the full responsibility for her involvement," said Irving.

"That's not good enough. There must be some punishment, if not to do justice, then to demonstrate to the rest that the authority of the Chantry is still to be respected. Knights," Greagoir addressed the rest of his templars who had finally regained themselves. "Please escort Nira Surana to the solitary confinement cells. She will be kept there while we conduct an investigation as to how far this corruption spreads."

"But—I—First Enchanter?" The young mage looked desperately to Irving.

"Greagoir, you cannot—" Irving protested.

"You'll find that I can, Irving, and that you should be grateful that I am only sentencing solitary confinement. Likely the investigation will be over before the months' end and you'll have your assistant back in no time."

Duncan watched as a blonde templar escorted her away. He was on thin enough ice with the Circle—he didn't need to damage relations permanently by recruiting two mages when just one had incited fury. She would be fine.

Edmund returned not a moment later, a light pack slung over his shoulder. "Let's be off."

—

Fresh air filled his lungs for the first time in what felt like ages. Duncan was quiet on the ferry ride to the shore, but it gave Edmund time to think.

Nira's existence proved that there were probably other "Player Characters" wandering around out there. Tabris, Aeducan, Cousland, Mahariel, and Brosca. Maybe they didn't need to head right to Ostagar. Maybe they could look at hitting up one or two of these locations to pick up more recruits.

"What's the plan, Duncan?" Edmund asked.

"The rest of my traveling party will be waiting for us at the inn. From here, we will go to Orzammar. The king has requested we approach the dwarves for aid, and we need to scout the deep roads in order to determine if this is truly a Blight."

Edmund raised a brow. "You say that like you don't already know it is."

Duncan gave him a curious look. "I cannot ask the king to act on my fears alone."

Edmund was quiet the rest of the way to the shore. He couldn't decide on what to tell Duncan. He could barely believe the truth himself.

They were headed to Orzammar. That much was already different than the game, which usually faded to the cutscene arrival at Ostagar immediately after the protagonists' recruitment. He could try to convince Duncan to recruit Brosca and Aeducan while they were there.

Three other Wardens waited for them on the shore, all of them human men. Duncan made brief introductions, naming the other Wardens as Sam, Oliver, and Farrien.

"This is Edmund Amell, our newest brother in the Order."

Sam nodded. "Excellent. Welcome, we look forward to having you in our ranks. Duncan, did the Knight-Commander agree to send more mages for the king's army?"

"I am afraid Greagoir and Irving will be loathe to release any more mages than they already have. What we have will have to work. His Majesty will have to be disappointed."

"Can't say you didn't try. We best get underway, the sooner we get to Orzammar, the sooner we can bring definitive word to the rest."

Without further ado, they were underway. Edmund realized he was faced with an even greater challenge than before—survive outside the Circle in a world he had no practical experience in.

This… would be interesting.


	4. A Kingdom Beneath (Part 1)

Liri rolled a copper over her knuckles idly, listening as Beraht made his usual threats to Rica. Much as she loathed the bastard, he was their only chance right now.

"I can't keep gambling on you forever, precious. You've got a sweet look, something to light a man on fire—but you've gotta make it count." Beraht took a long eyeful of Rica. Liri's free hand brushed against her sword.

"Please, Beraht. I don't want to do this in front of my sister—"

Beraht laughed. "Why not? She knows the slope of the land, don't ya, girl?"

Liri slipped the copper into her pocket and began to sign. _"Didn't I tell you the next time you spoke like that about my sister I'd shank you through your ribs?"_

Beraht glanced at Rica for an interpretation. "We owe you everything, Beraht. We won't let you down."

Liri glared at her sister. _"That's not what I said."_

It was probably for the best that Rica censored her, but it irritated her nonetheless.

"That's what I like to hear," said Beraht. "Before me, your sister was just another duster. Now check her out! Braids down to here, gold-capped teeth—she can recite elf-poetry and play the string-harp. Every man's dream! All she's gotta do is find a lord, squeeze out some kid who looks like him, and we're all living the easy life in the Diamond Quarter."

Rica looked up at Liri, a small amount of shame in her eyes. "Please don't get involved. You know that never goes well."

_"__I don't like him treating you like this," _said Liri. Like they really had any other choice.

Beraht glared in their direction. "You just keep your head down and say 'aye' to any job I decide is low enough for scum like you. In return, I put out coin so precious Rica can doll herself up and get a bellyful of some nobleman's brat. Then, you both go free. And I get to join the family and be called, 'mi'lord' for the rest of the little prince's life."

Liri looked at the carta boss incredulously. There was no way this ended after that. Beraht would hold them for life, one way or another. _"So what are you doing here?"_

Rica passed on the question, and Beraht looked the both of them over again. "Checking on my investments. And right now, they don't bear much gold. I'm giving you another week, precious. If you haven't found a patron, you're back to sweeping streets."

"But… I have." Rica's eyes lit up. "I've met someone… that is, I didn't want to promise, but he seemed interested."

_"__So get off her back and tell me my job for the day."_

"Your buddy Leske's waiting outside. He knows what I'll need from you today. Don't even think about bungling this job. Your whole family is on loose sand with me right now." Beraht's voice carried more threat than usual, which was actually impressive. "And I know you don't have anywhere else to turn." With that, Beraht left them alone in their little hovel.

"I'm sorry you had to see that."

_"__You don't have to hide anything from me, Rica."_

"I've always tried, though. At least I've made sure you don't have to buy your future with what's between your legs anymore," said Rica with a long sigh. "I should have told you. Beraht's been warning me ever since two of his other girls found patrons at Lord Harrowmont's reception. They've been getting gifts already. Lord Rousten gave Elsye a surface-silk gown and she's not even pregnant. Beraht's getting impatient."

_"__Have you had that much competition attracting nobles?" _More and more girls were working the Diamond Quarter with the hopes of bearing a noble son, it seemed. It was a strange feeling, watching the other casteless girls put on pearls while she put on armor.

"Well, there are enough of us now that they have a name for us. They call us noble-hunters." Rica rolled her eyes. "It's not like we're stalking them for food!"

_"__Besides, I hear deshyr taste awful, all gristle and fat."_

Rica laughed, hiding her mouth behind her hand with cultured grace. All those etiquette classes were paying off, at least. "Besides, if they didn't want what we were offering, believe me, there would be nobody doing it."

_"__I don't understand why the work I do for Beraht isn't enough." _Liri shook her head as she signed.

"I know you've worked hard to keep him from throwing us out. I can only imagine the horrible things he's made you do."

Not so horrible, maybe. A couple heads bashed in here, and couple threats made there. A few drops of poison in a goblet and a knife or two in the right back. All in a day's work, really. She was really better suited to the life of a thug than one trying to schmooze nobles anyhow.

"But… there are a lot of desperate dwarves in Orzammar. He could buy any one of them to run messages and knock skulls."

_"__We wouldn't even be in this mess if I could join the army. Or the Silent Sisters. I already have most of their requirements met, anyhow." _Liri chuckled in spite of herself, drawing a soft laugh from her sister.

Rice turned serious again soon enough. "Be that as it may, you know as well as I that the nobles would never allow it. It's sheer folly, one more way the nobility protect their status. They say casteless soldiers are more danger to each other than to darkspawn… the it's an insult to the smith to let us touch a fine-made weapon. Truly, they just don't wish to insult the Warrior Caste by showing that given the same opportunities we could lead an army just as well."

That much, Liri knew. She could list a dozen dusters off the top of her head who would make for excellent warriors or even generals, but instead they were resigned to life in Dust Town, begging or thumping skulls for the carta. _"They would rather we all be killed than admit they're wrong."_

"I have little love for the nobles, but they know—more than we ever will—what the darkspawn have taken from our kind. Every noble I've met has had a brother or a nephew killed in the Deep Roads. Yet, they let their arrogance blind them to the fact that we could help defend the city against the darkspawn. They would even turn to the humans for aid before us, it seems. There's talk floating around of an alliance against the darkspawn, even that the Grey Wardens have stepped up."

If there was one good thing about her sister's position, it was the information. Rica overheard all kinds of interesting things as she worked the Diamon Quarter. The job wore on her sister, even though she hid it well behind layers of cosmetics.

_"__Beraht asks too much of you."_ Liri could see how her sister's shoulders sagged whenever she didn't think anyone was looking. It wasn't as bad as when they were younger. At times Rica even seemed hopeful. But that weight was still there.

Rica fidgeted with the buttons on her sleeve. "You know the nobles are desperate for children. They can barely field enough soldiers to hold the walls against the darkspawn. If I could… give one of them a son, the whole house would celebrate. And we'd all be raised up to noble caste to join the family. It's what Beraht's betting on. That's why he's paid for my clothes, my voice lessons. He wants to share the reward."

_"__And you said there was a noble showing interest?"_

"Yes. That is, I hope. He certainly seems… charming. He treats me like a real lady, not just someone to tumble and forget." Rica was actually smiling. Even if the job Beraht had her set to was sometimes… unpleasant, it was good that Rica could at least find a little joy in it.

_"__You gonna tell me who he is, or am I supposed to start guessing?" _She needed to know—someone needed to do a background check, and Rica wasn't the one. Who is he, who are his trading partners, does he beat his women behind closed doors, do his friends. All important things to know.

"I-I don't want to say… in case I'm wrong," said Rica. Liri narrowed her eyes at her sister. Was Rica blushing? She was actually blushing. "It just seems too mad to think of one of the most important men in Orzammar with… someone like me."

"You know the other options. Cleaning middens, begging, going to the surface… working the street corners again…" Rica shuddered. Unpleasant as it could be pursuing nobles or slitting throats, neither of them wanted to go back to selling a tumble for a single copper. They were worth more than that, at the very least. "No, unless you find a way to save us all from darkspawn and become a Paragon, we're pretty much on Beraht's leash for life."

Liri barked a laugh. _"Someone like me could never actually become a Paragon."_

"It wouldn't be the first time. Gherlon the Blood-Risen was born casteless, you know, before he went to the surface. And he came back and won the throne!" Rica exclaimed. Her fancy education was paying off, at least. "Many Paragons have humble origins. All that matters is that the Assembly recognizes their achievements. And once they get that vote, they found their own house, and are as noble as if the ancestors themselves made it so."

It would never happen. She wasn't anything special, just another casteless doing her best to survive. The day she became Paragon would be the very same day nugs started to fly.

Still, Rica's hope was a little contagious. Just a little. _"That would certainly surprise Mother."_

"Oh, don't pay attention to her. She's just a bitter old drunk. She also said you'd never learn to walk, or stop dumping the bed. Make something of yourself just to spite her."

_"__Maybe I will."_

"Maybe you will." Rica smiled fondly. "But until then, we can only serve as Beraht demands, and he won't like it if either of us is late."

_"__You're right. See ya later." _Liri gathered her gear, adding a couple more blades to her belt.

"Don't get into too much trouble. I'll see you tonight." Rica turned to her trunk and began to pull out her expensive accessories.

Liri tried to exit the hovel without catching her mother's attention, but alas, no such luck.

Her mother glared over at her in a haze as she passed, a bottle of moss-wine clutched in her hand. "Whozzat? Why are you bothering me? Rica?"

It was one of those days, apparently. Liri and Rica looked alike, sure, but when she was deep in the bottle her mother could never tell one from the other.

_"__It's the guardsmen. You're under arrest for drunkenness." _If drunkenness was an actual offense, all of Tapsters would be incarcerated.

Her mother stared at her. Even though Liri signed slowly, it took the drunken mess a moment to puzzle out the hand signals.

"Don't sass me, you ungrateful brat! I made you and I can make another just like you." She took another swig. Everything about the woman stank with alcohol.

_"__I'm the only reason you're here and not dead in a gutter." _Too many times, she or Rica had had to pull their mother physically out of a ditch. They stopped trying to drag her out of her emotional ditch years ago.

"Then you shoulda left me there!" She spat, "What've I got that's worth livin for?"

Not much, apparently. _"What about me? What about Rica?"_

"I know you both hate me…" she shifted from rage to weeping faster than a coin flip. "… I-I know what I done to ya, but… it was for your own good. The world's a cruel place. You… you had to learn that." And then it was back to rage just as fast. "You think you'd be where you are now if I'd let you hide from a few slaps? Everything you are, I made you!"

_"__Think that's something to be proud of, do you?" _A few slaps, indeed. How many times had she hid behind Rica when this woman went on a drunken rampage? Too many. How many years had she and Rica stood on the street corners, selling themselves for less than they were worth, just for what little money they made go straight into a bottle? Too many. Only now that they had a real chance at changing their fates did their mother start claiming she made any of it happen.

"I tried my best! They treat us like dust, tell us we're cursed. How else are we supposed to live? We got nothin! There's no way out. For any of us."

_"__You're wrong. I'm going to make something of my life." _Did she actually just say that? Wow. Rica really was rubbing off on her.

"Sure. That's what they all say. You only got one coin to spend in this life, and it's between your legs."

Liri turned away to stop herself from decking the woman upside the head. She started towards the door.

"Hey, where's she goin? Why's she leaving?" Her mother slurred. "Don't leave me!"

Liri turned back just in time to see the woman fall sideways out of her chair, only to be caught by Rica before hitting the stone. "Never mind, Mother. Why don't you just lie down? That's good." Liri helped Rica move the semi-coherent drunk to the nearby cot. Almost impressively, a bottle of moss-wine still rested tightly in her grip.

_"__I'm going now. Hopefully she'll dry out by the time I get back."_

Unlikely. But miracles happened every once in a while, even in Dust Town.

Leske was waiting for her in his usual place in the square.

"About sodding time. I was starting to think I'd have to bust in and get an eyeful of that spicy sister of yours, ga-row!"

She was so not in the mood for this today.

_"__Haven't I told you not to talk about Rica that way?"_

Leske was unfazed. Apparently he missed the murder in her eyes. "You're just jealous because you want the majesty of Leske for yourself, you shameless hussy. What do you say?"

_"__I say that you just like Rica because she can't break you with one hand."_ Liri cracked her knuckles as she finished, just to emphasize the point.

Leske cleared his throat and looked away quickly. "That does have its appeal. But much as I'd love to keep chatting, we'd better get down to business."

_"__And here I hoped our mission was for me to make fun of you."_

"No such luck."

_"__So what's the job?"_

—

He learned a lot on the five-day walk to Orzammar. The most important things were how to pitch a tent, how to cook over a fire, and that the body belonging to Edmund Amell was not nearly as physically fit as his own actual body.

He supposed he would have to adjust soon. If he made it to the "main campain," he was going to do an awful lot of walking around Ferelden.

If any of his traveling companions questions his lack of general know-how, they didn't voice it. He supposed that it could easily be explained that he was in the Circle for so long he didn't know anything about the outside world. It was a really convenient excuse.

Duncan spoke little during the journey, only occasionally making small talk, but mostly giving instructions or asking the occasional question. The other Wardens were more talkative, with each other and with him.

He found himself remembering with an uncomfortable start that none of the men he was traveling with would survive Ostagar. That made it somewhat more difficult to speak with them.

The others seemed to interpret his sudden solemn attitude as homesickness, even going so far to tease him about it. He didn't see a need to correct them.

Two of the nights they camped on the road, he found himself in the Fade with Pride. Pride worked with him on his focus, on his ability to reach into his mana smoothly on command. Edmund told Pride about cell phones. Pride taught him his limits, how far he could push before he reached his breaking point, and what to do if that ever happened. Edmund told Pride about the Internet. They traded back in forth, and for now at least it seemed like this little dance would work.

Though the training in the Fade didn't seem to affect him physically, it did leave him waking with a killer headache in the morning. What he wouldn't do for some tylenol.

Sam and Oliver were discussing the best way to kill an Ogre when Edmund realized they were nearing the gates to Orzammar. He quickened his steps to match Duncan's at the head of the group.

"Will you be recruiting while we're here, Duncan?"

"Should we find someone worthy, I don't see why not," said Duncan. "There is always room in the Wardens for those with the will and skill to face the darkspawn."

Edmund drummed his fingers against his staff, which he'd used throughout the trip as a glorified walking stick, lost in thought. He hadn't told Duncan. Didn't know how to tell Duncan. Didn't know if he should.

He didn't even know when they would be arriving in Orzammar, time-line wise. The Commoner Origin was supposed to take place a week before the Noble Origin. They would probably only be able to recruit one or the other.

If he had to guess, they would be there for the Noble Origin. He recalled Duncan standing at the commission feast with other human Wardens—there to scout the Deep Roads for some mysterious reason. Like they were apparently doing now.

"Well find some here. I'm sure of it."

The market around the cities entrance was bustling, surface dwarves selling wares from armor to artwork. The company of Wardens passed through the middle directly to the gates themselves. Edmund didn't know how to put it any other way. They were… enormous.

The guards recognized Duncan nearly on-sight and let them in almost without question.

Edmund felt like he was stepping into an entirely different world—which was becoming a common sensation, unfortunately. The game simply didn't do the massive Hall of Heroes justice.

Stone dwarves loomed in a massive parade as they made their way to the city proper. Edmund could almost here Orzammar's theme music playing in the back of his mind.

The city was strangely dark—but if he remembered correctly dwarves had dark-vision, so the denizens of the city probably saw fine. As it was for the party of humans, the waterfalls and pools of lava cast an eerie glow on the entire city, enhancing the other-worldly effect.

His eyes began to adjust to the darkness as they were escorted through the city. Being that the shortest of them was still two feet taller than the dwarves around them, they caught a lot of attention from passers by.

He'd have thought he'd have gotten used to being watched from hanging around templars, but this was different. Awe and curiosity, not suspicion.

Their escort brought them to what he assumed was the Diamond Quarter. "This is the Grey Warden compound here in Orzammar. It is a small location, meant for those who stop here before going on to face their—" Sam stopped mid explanation and swore loudly, having caught an elbow in the ribs from Oliver. He glared at his companion before continuing. "before they scout the Deep Roads. Yeah."

Edmund rolled his eyes. Before they went to face their Callings, yeah. That wasn't something they told their recruits.

"We will be staying here while I take care of the matters in the city," said Duncan, as they entered. "Take a few moments to refresh, and then we will meet with the King. Be on your best behavior, all of you."

—

Endrin spoke with them only briefly, busy with matters of state, but promised to cede his request to study in the Shaperate until such a time as he could be spared to address the Grey Warden concerns. That itself could make the trip worthwhile—he'd found mentions of an old Grey Warden outpost in the Korcari Wilds while in the Circle library, but the Shaperate was more likely to have specific information.

Otherwise, Endrin suggested Duncan take his Wardens to the Proving grounds, where a Glory Proving would be fought later that afternoon, saying that such an event would be declared as a showing for the honor of the Grey Warden's arrival. Some of their best would be competing in the fights today.

Duncan eyed the dark-haired mage as they walked the streets of the Commons. Edmund carried himself with an impossible mix of confidence and uncertainty and had an uncannily accurate intuition. Duncan felt he likely knew more than he let on. Provided he survived the Joining, Duncan hoped to get answers about some of the more… unexpected things he'd said.

For now, he lead his Wardens to the Proving ground. Perhaps one among the contestants would prove to be Grey Warden material.

—

Liri's purse was heavier than it'd been in a long while. They'd eat well for the next couple days at least. She glanced back at Leske as they walked through the Commons. He was trying too hard to look casual.

_"__Don't worry. Just follow my lead, Beraht won't suspect a thing."_

"I hope you're right, salorka."

Beraht and Jarvia stood by the counter when Liri and Leske entered the shop.

"… the king is old, his rule won't hold much longer," said Beraht.

"Prince Bhelen seems more sympathetic to our interests than Trian. I'm not certain where Prince Aothor stands. He's been careful publicly, but he's extremely popular—and that makes him a bit of a wild card," said Jarvia.

"We'll have to get more eyes on prince number two. But Bhelen has some tastes of his own that he knows I can provide—" Beraht glanced their way, realizing that they'd entered the shop. "We'll finish this later. It's about time you two showed up. What happened with Oskias?"

_"__We searched him and everything he had, didn't find anything. He was clean," _she signed as Leske translated. There wasn't any way for him to censor her either, since unlike Beraht, Jarvia understood hand speech.

"He didn't have anything? You expect me to believe that?" Beraht crossed his arms, glaring down at them.

"He said he was keeping it all topside," Leske added.

"Jarvia, send a dig-troop topside. If Oskias has a hiding spot up there, I want us up to our elbows in it."

Jarvia nodded. "As you say."

Beraht turned back to Liri. "And the matter of… punishment?"

_"__Don't worry. I killed him myself."_

"That's very interesting, seeing as how my cousin was at Tapsters this afternoon. And he says he saw something change hands between you and Oskias and then the duster sodding stood up and walked out on his own two feet! Does that sound like what I asked? Jarvia, what does that sound like to you?"

Jarvia sneered at them. "It sounds like some jumped-up face-brands thought they could take a bribe and let him walk free. That's just not right."

"The lady says it's not right. You wouldn't disagree with a lady, would you?"

Yeah, but if Jarvia was a lady, Liri was an elf. It wasn't lost on her that both Beraht and Jarvia had their hands on their swords. _"I'm not stupid enough to kill Oskias in public."_

"Right," Leske continued, backing her up with confidence. "I mean, no one's gonna say spit to you, Beraht, but we can't move that free. We needed to get Oskias somewhere private. We took him to the lava sinks behind the mines. You won't be seeing him again."

Beraht's hand lifted from his pommel to stroke his beard. "Hmm… I don't like you making me look weak… but it's smart to keep the Sword Caste's from asking questions." Beraht barked out a laugh, shaking her head. Jarvia just looked disappointed she wasn't going to be shanking them. "That's what I like about you two. Now, I got something else for you. Make some use of your… unique skills."

Liri gave him an uncertain look. She had a lot of "unique skills." He was going to have to be more specific.

_"__Let me guess: we don't really have a choice."_

Beraht chuckled. "You're catching on. There's a Proving happening today—all the best fighters from the upper castes, last man standing—you know the sort of thing. They're showing off for some Grey Wardens who are looking for candidates to drag off to a life of eternal glory." Beraht began to pace as he spoke, a gleam of greed in his eyes. "Now, it's not often we get every name fighter in Orzammar lined up like that, and I have certain acquaintances who… take an interest in this sort of thing."

_"__And you're taking bets on the fights."_

Beraht carried on without a look to them. "There's a lot of coin to be made when people get the fever up. Favored fighter's an officer named Mainar, veteran of four darkspawn campaigns. I also heard rumors that one of the prince's was signed up—likely Aothor, he's won five Provings previously and likes to test himself against the warriors—but so far there's been no confirmation. Regardless, Everd is a long-shot. Just got back from a Deep Roads offensive. Some young buck who's got all the ladies drooling. I've got a lot of money riding on him, mine and other peoples. I expect to see and eight-to-one payoff. Understand?"

He painted a clear enough picture. She nodded. _"Aye, I do."_

"Good. When the name Mainar comes up, I want you to slip this drug into the bastard's water. It'll slow his reflexes, just enough to take the edge off, not enough to show. But it wears off quickly, so don't use it until just before the fight."

_"__Alright. We'll go right now."_

"You bet you will. Here's your pass to get on the grounds. The Proving starts as soon as the clock strikes. Here's your passes to get on the grounds. And when I say I have coin on this, I'm not talking about some pittance. Like the value of your life. If I don't see Everd's name on the winner's sheet, you'd better make sure I never see you, or your sister, ever again."

Very subtle. Nice, Beraht.

Leske followed her out of the shop and across the bridge. They had a Proving to fix.

_—_

Edmund stuck to Duncan's side like glue as they entered the Proving Grounds. Maybe they would be recruiting the Commoner Origin, after all. If Brosca approached Duncan, he wanted to be there and see for himself.

Dwarves milled about around them as everyone waited for the fights to begin. Most made their way to the seating area, some stopped by the concessions stand to get a leg of roast nug. He was considering grabbing one himself when a redheaded dwarven woman approached them. The other dwarves avoided her like she carried the Blight. Probably because of the geometric brands spanning her forehead like a crown.

He'd bet gold this was Brosca. If he had any gold. Which he did not.

She shuffled in place, looking up at them with an equal mix of apprehension and curiosity. Duncan bowed to her in greeting. "Stone-met, and blessings on your house." The lady dwarf just blinked, frowning. "That was the proper greeting for an outside the last time I visited Orzammar. Has it changed? Or is there a reason you're looking me so strangely?"

_"__In my part of Orzammar we just go with 'Hello.'"_

Edmund frowned. She was using sign-language. He… hadn't expected that, honestly.

If Duncan was as surprised as he was, he hid it better, and could also understand her hand-signals like he could. "We do the same in my part of Ferelden," the man laughed, "Hello, then. I am Duncan. I'd say 'of the Grey Wardens' but I suspect you already know this. Pleased to meet you."

_"__I am Edmund, of the same," _Edmund said, signing as he spoke. Damn. Now that he looked at her closer, she really looked like his sister, and the sign language made it even more uncanny. Given that she understood Duncan without him signing, Edmund gathered that she wasn't deaf like his sister.

His sister. Melody.

Damn. Now his heart hurt.

He pushed thoughts of his family away. He couldn't afford to be homesick now.

"Are you a member of the Silent Sisters, perhaps? I have met others of your Order in the past." That's right. Utha. It made sense Duncan would know some sign-language. He made a mental note to add that to his record journal.

Brosca shook her head. _"No. I'm just Liri. Of… of nobody."_

Duncan put the pieces together. "Ah… ah, of course. That's what the face-brand means, then. I remember that now."

_"__Aye. And yes, you can have me arrested for harassing you, if you want."_

Duncan laughed. "For saying hello? My friend, to a Grey Warden nothing short of a slavering darkspawn waking you in your bedroll counts as harassment."

Edmund rolled his eyes. "You certainly know how to make a sales pitch, Commander."

"I only speak the truth." Duncan shrugged. "And in truth, I am very glad to have met you, young lady. Whenever we come to Orzammar we always stay in the Diamond Quarter. It's easy to forget how much of the city we miss. We Wardens are always looking for those who have the courage to spend their lives in battle against the darkspawn. It is rare we find those with both the skill and the will. The best Wardens are ruthless to their enemies, compassionate to their friends, and inspiring to their troops. It's a lot to look for, but I hope to find it here."

"And I think we just did," Edmund said softly.

"In any event, we hope you find what you are looking for. Come, we should get to our seats." Duncan bid her farewell and lead him through the halls.

"She's Warden material, Duncan," he told the man as they walked. Duncan cast him a curious look.

"What makes you say?"

First of all, she was probably guaranteed to survive the Joining. Because plot armor. Did that apply to reality? Probably not. Whatever. "She works for Beraht, a local crime lord. Good at what she does. Anyways, you'll see soon enough. The fights are about to start."

"We're scarce been in the city a day. How could you know this?"

"I use my listening ears. Come on."

The stadium was packed with dwarves, all cheering loudly like it was the Super Bowl. Duncan took the seat of honor, while he and the other Wardens sat at his sides. The Proving Master stood at the edge of the balcony. When he spoke, his voice boomed over the crowd. He eyed the runes carved into the floor. They probably served to amplify sound.

The opening speech was grand and long. Most of it was honoring the ancestors, calling down their favor on the combatants, and praying for the Stone to comfort those who fell. There was a little thrown in there about honoring the Grey Wardens and the glory of the call, towards the end.

The first combatants entered the arena. Officer Mainar, and "Everd."

The two bowed to each other. If he hand't been watching Liri as closely as he was, he would have missed it when she scooped a handful of dirt into her hand.

"Fight!" The Proving Master gave the signal.

Mainar rushed at Liri, who easily evaded the swing of his club and threw the handful of dust directly into his eyes. While he sputtered and flailed about, Liri struck the back of his head with the pommel of her blade, knocking him out cold.

"The winner is Everd!" The stadium went wild. "A truly memorable fight. The young cadet vanquishes the wily veteran."

Mainar was carried off the field, and "Everd" returned to the waiting rooms without a word.

The Proving was set up in a series of brackets, with only the victors advancing to the next round. A few more pairs of dwarves went at it. He recognized a few of the names.

He nearly fell out of his seat when the Proving Master announced the fourth pair of combatants.

"The warrior Burbek Turin will do honorable battle against Prince Aothor Aeducan!"

If he thought the crowd had been loud before, it all but exploded.

"Aeducan?" Edmund asked, looking to one of the nearby dwarves.

"Oh yes. The prince often competes in the Provings, has since he was old enough to wield a blade. He enjoys spending time with the warriors and testing his mettle against theirs. Should the ancestors favor him today, he will become a six-time champion of the arena. He's a crowd favorite, that's for certain."

Edmund studied the dwarven man in the pit. From here all he could make out was fine blond hair and a well groomed beard, and that the man wore heavy armor and carried a sword and shield.

If they stayed in Orzammar long enough, maybe they could get both dwarves.

The dwarves wished each other luck, donned their helms, and drew their blades. Prince Aothor's opponent carried a great sword. The two circled each other around once, then twice. Aothor made the first move, raising his sword and charging in.

His opponent parried the blow and returned in kind. Aothor caught the blow with his shield and pushed back, causing the other dwarf to stumble, but not fall. They kept this pattern going for a short while.

"Liri takes her opponents out before they can get going. Aothor has the stamina to wear them down and outlast them." Edmund half-said to Duncan.

Duncan looked at him, confused. "Liri?"

Edmund shook his head. "Everd."

The match ended with the princes victory as Duncan pieced together his words and chuckled.

The next several bouts proceeded in this manner. Liri would let her opponents rush her, making them do the work in attacking her, before turning their own moves against them to put them down quickly. With Aothor it was more of a back-and-forth, a steady give and take in the blows. He mostly tuned out the battles where neither of them were fighting.

He checked the bracket. The way things were lining up…

The final fight was going to be Aothor Aeducan vs. "Everd."

Oh shit.

—

Oh shit.

Sodding ancestors, why did this kinda thing have to happen to her?

Aothor Aeducan. A fucking _prince._

What was the worst about this situation was that even if she _did_ put down the guy who would likely be the next ruler of Orzammar, she wouldn't be able to tell anyone about it. A fucking waste of bragging rights, right there.

Prince Aothor bowed to her. This couldn't get anymore surreal.

"You've fought well today, Everd. Win or loose, your ancestors surely smile upon you this day."

Considering that Everd was currently locked in a storage trunk, that was unlikely.

She shrugged, bowing to the noble and readying her weapons. Aeducan strapped on his helm and did likewise.

"The battle for the championship is here! Combatants, make your ancestors proud, and fight for glory!"

At the signal for the battle to begin, the prince started to close the distance towards her.

Liri took her dagger and threw it, aimed true at his head. He raised his shield to guard his face. Which meant for at least a split second, he couldn't see her.

It was all she needed.

She ran, circling around to get an opening at his flank. By the time his shield came down, her sword was already aimed at his back.

He spun on his heel and parried and stepped back, safely out of range.

Liri scowled. She bent and picked up the dagger from the ground. Aothor swung at her while she was down. She easily rolled away from the blow and sprung to her feet a few paces away.

So far, the rest of Orzammar's "best" wouldn't have lasted an afternoon stroll through the alley's of Dust Town. The princeling was the first one to put up a decent challenge.

They went back and forth, parrying and striking until they nearly settled into a rhythm.

He was trying to draw this out. He wanted her to wear down, to get sloppy.

She _was _tiring. Three straight bouts with minimal rest between—her arms were starting to get stiff. Aeducan did this kind of thing regularly. He had the advantage here.

She needed to end this quickly.

She sheathed her dagger, but readied the sword. With her now empty hand, she gestured him to come at her.

The crowd was jeering and screaming—she couldn't tell what cries were directed at which fighter. As it was, Aothor shifted his stance, planting himself to the stone.

She sighed—leave it to the noble to be uncooperative. She charged him. He easily knocked the sword to the side before cutting in with his blade.

Perfect.

She caught his wrist with her free hand and twisted. The prince called out in surprise and dropped the sword. Liri kicked it away and went for her dagger.

She was just a fraction of a second too slow.

Aothor swung back with his shield, catching the underside of the helm. Sparks danced in her vision as she stumbled backwards, but she kept her feet under her.

Aothor was staring at her, eyes wide behind his helm. Liri blinked. Sound came back into full focus. The crowd was… furious. Slowly, she reached up to her head and felt hair. She looked down. Everd's helm was lying on the stone at her feet.

Shit.

The Proving Master's voice boomed over the space. "Who are you? How dare you disrupt this sacred—"

"That's not Everd!" Shouted Mainar. An astounding observation, truly. "What imposter did I fight?"

"Casteless," the quiet voice came from the man standing in the pit with her. Liri looked at the noble. He wasn't angry. Just… really confused.

"Casteless!" Roared the Proving Master, "She insults the very nature of this Proving!" soldiers poured into the pit. "Guards, take this… filth, away!"

The prince turned and exited the stadium without a single word to her.

The guards encircled her, cutting off any avenue of escape.

Beraht was going to be pissed.

Beraht.

_Rica._

Her blood turned to ice. She dropped into a dead sprint, running for the doors.

She wasn't going to make it. She knew that. But she had to try.

A guard grabbed her as she ran by and struck her in the back of the head. Her vision went black.


	5. A Kingdom Beneath (Part 2)

"My lord—my lord Aeducan! Are you alright?" The Proving's Master practically hovered over him. "This disgraces us all, my lord. Rest assured, that casteless filth will be publicly executed for desecrating the Provings and bearing arms against a prince of Orzammar."

Aothor was surprised the guards had even arrested her and not simply cut her down where she stood. "There will be time enough for that sort of thing later. Have the guard-captain rally his men, the people are high-strung—there's no need for a riot today. See to it that everyone returns to his home or place of work. Order will be maintained."

"As you say." The Proving Master all but ran from the room to carry out his command.

Aothor sighed, pulling on the ends of his beard. He looked over at Gorim, who was trying very hard to not looked like a concerned mother, and failing.

"Are you certain you're unharmed, my lord?"

"Only thing that's truly damaged is my dignity, but that will recover with time." Aothor stretched out his leg. He was also certain he'd pulled something during the fight—that woman was fast, he'd barely kept up.

"Don't worry. This Proving's been disqualified, all record of it struck from the memories. Officially, today's contests didn't even happen," said Gorim.

"She almost beat me, Gorim." Aothor shook his head, "If the fight hadn't halted the moment her helmet came off and we'd kept going at it, I'm not sure I could have won. Where does a brand learn to fight like that?"

"If I had to guess, I'd say carta. Those thugs have tried meddling with Provings in the past, but usually it doesn't go farther than illegal gambling, or occasionally drugging a contestant. To actually enter a casteless into a match…"

"Either this wasn't a part of their plan, or they're sending a message." Aothor gathered the last of his gear and joined his escort back to the Diamond Quarter. Gorim walked at his side, close enough that they could converse at a whisper without the others overhearing. "Regardless, this creates opportunity."

"What are you scheming?" Gorim asked.

"Execution is a waste of her skills. If she can fight like that in a tournament where the intent is to disable or disarm, not kill, imagine what she could do if pointed into the Deep Roads?" Aothor mused. "No. There are four options at our disposal. The worst is execution. Second worst is exile, either into the deeps or to the surface. Then, a more preferable outcome is to sentence her to the Legion of the Dead."

"And the best outcome?"

"The best outcome is one that makes a broader statement. Have you, per chance, heard there are Grey Wardens in the city?" Aothor smiled at his friends as he put it together.

Gorim chuckled. "You know, some believe you only care for competition and sport, just another muscle head bent on glory. You're more manipulative than you let on."

"Hush. I have a reputation to uphold." Aothor knocked his friend's shoulder. "Come on. We've got to deal with this."

—

It wasn't until later into the evening that they got back to the compound. Every noble in Orzammar, it seemed, felt they had to express their deep regret for the apparent insult at the Proving grounds that morning, and all assured him they would see the offending casteless punished severely.

Duncan stood in the compound with his Wardens, who were all discussing the days events with great enthusiasm.

Save for the mage.

Duncan pulled the man aside. "How did you know Liri was wearing Everd's armor? No one else seemed to suspect."

The young man fidgeted with the sleeve of his robe. "I have a killer intuition," he said, "Look, this is going to sound crazy, but just listen. I'm… I'm good with spirits. And sometimes, they'll tell me things. What I have now are names. Five of them. Mahariel, Aeducan, Tabris, Cousland, and Brosca. Names of individuals who are nearly guaranteed to survive the Joining. And yeah, I know about that too. Anyways, that's Liri Brosca. She's on the list."

Duncan stared at the mage. He… had not been expecting that. "Aeducan?" he asked after a moment of processing.

"The second son, specifically."

He recognized several of those names. Tabris —Adaia. He recalled hearing that she'd had a daughter at some point who got into all kinds of mischief. Cousland… one of Bryce's sons, perhaps? Maybe it would be worth it to make another stop back at Highever.

Of course, this was all based of information from supposed spirits. "What else do you know?"

"More than I probably should. But I want to use what I know to help. That's why I wanted to join you so badly," Edmund confessed. "I don't think I could stand knowing what I do and not use it to to help."

A commendable attitude, at least. The steward of the compound entered the room, pulling his attention away. "Commander, a guest is here to see you."

Duncan nodded to the dwarf. "Show them in."

The dwarf hesitated. "Sir, it's… it's Prince Aothor. He's here to see you, specifically, alone."

Duncan frowned, glancing back at Edmund. "We will continue this later."

A blond dwarf awaited him in the hall, a second dwarf faithfully by his side. Duncan bowed to the prince. "Prince Aothor. It is an honor to make your acquaintance. Stone-met, and blessings on your house."

"And upon yours. You are the Grey Warden Commander, yes?"

"I am. You may call me Duncan. How may I assist you, your majesty?"

"I am glad to have finally meet you, though I certainly wish it could have been under less… interesting circumstances. You attended this afternoon's proving. You saw what occurred."

"That I did. It was certainly an event to remember."

Aothor shook his head, stroking his beard absently. "To put it lightly. The Proving was already scheduled for today long before we got word of your arrival, but because of you the event doubled as a showing for the Grey Wardens to view potential recruits. But you know that already, of course. The match for today as already been completely disqualified and removed from the Memories. Even though the competition was declared a farce, the Wardens don't have to leave without a recruit."

Duncan raised a brow at the prince. "Here to volunteer?"

The dwarf laughed. "Ancestors, no! Don't get me wrong, I hold your Order in high regard. But my place is here in the city. This is where I belong. Orzammar is my duty, and my heart." Aothor sighed. "The casteless woman from today. She's been placed in the cells, along with a suspected accomplice, who's being interrogated as we speak. I've ensured there will be a trial. A public one, with Shapers presiding. Most of the high castes will call for blood. The best I might be able to do is Legion or exile."

He could see where this was going. "I could remove her into my custody as a Grey Warden recruit. An interesting idea, your majesty."

"Just think it over. You saw her fight today—I fought her first hand. Stone, if half our warriors could move like that, we'd have reclaimed Aeducan Thaig years ago and have a dozen more mines," said Aothor, "Execution is a waste."

The door to the hall opened and three dwarves wearing armor ran in. The red-headed dwarf shifted his position to stand between them and the prince. "Hold and declare, soldier," he said.

"It's alright Gorim, I asked these guards to bring me updates on the prisoners." Aothor nodded to the guards to speak.

"Um—well, you see sir, it's… I swear it's now our fault, we just—"

"On your time, guardsman." Aothor's voice and expression was calm, but his posture had gone rigid.

"Yes mi'lord. As you say, mi'lord. Um… the prisoners are gone."

"What?" Exclaimed Gorim. "They escaped?"

"We're not exactly sure," one of the guards admitted, scratching his head in puzzlement. "The captain believes it's even possible that they may have been… removed."

"We suspected carta influence. This only confirms it," Aothor muttered to Gorim. Duncan watched as the dwarf turned to the guards. It was like a flip switched and suddenly he was no longer looking just looking at a young dwarven man, but a true Prince of Orzammar. "Run back to your captain, men. Tell him a search must be organized at once. I and my second shall be along to assist in the endeavor. If we do not move quickly, we'll be lucky to find our prisoners in pieces, if at all."

"Yes sir!" The guards saluted without hesitation and turned, marching out of the compound.

Aothor turned to Duncan with a polite nod. Duncan bowed to the prince as he turned to leave the compound. Aothor halted, then turned back, unstrapping a mace from his belt. "Here. I'd meant to present this to whoever won today's championship, or at least advanced enough to face me in the finals. If that casteless woman does find her way into your ranks…"

"My lord, are you certain? That mace belonged to Foral Aeducan, your ancestor," said Gorim, light protest in his voice.

"My ancestor, and also a Grey Warden. It is only fitting it return to the Order, one way or another," Aothor said evenly. "Until we meet again, Warden Commander."

Duncan watched the prince and his second leave.

When he exited the hall, he found all his Wardens hanging out conspicuously close to the door. He needed to teach them how to eavesdrop properly.

"We're going to help look, right?" asked Edmund, looking at him expectantly. Duncan turned the mace idly over in his hand.

"Naturally."

—

Liri was used to waking up in the muck and the dirt. She wasn't even unused to waking up behind bars. It was rather telling of the kind of life she'd led.

"Are you awake?" Leske hissed from another cell, "Can you hear me?"

_"__Of course I can hear you. I'm dumb, not deaf."_

"How hard did they sodding hit you, anyways? Did you have to put up such a fight?"

_"__What happened after I went down?"_

Leske started pacing his cell like a caged animal. "As soon as everybody saw your face brand, the place went mad. Shut all the doors, examined everybody for family and caste. One of the guards recognized me and figured we must be working together. They burned three candles to the stump interrogating me about who put us up to this." Liri eyed her friend. Bruises and small lacerations trailed up his arms. "I think they knew, ya know, about Beraht."

Liri sighed. _"How much trouble are we in with the law for this stunt?"_

Leske started counting off the offenses on his fingers. "Public whipping. Loss of your left hand for stealing the armor. Loss of your right hand for befouling a smith's work… then public flaying for impersonating a higher caste… and if all that doesn't kill you, they'll put you to death for polluting the Proving. I heard rumblings about someone calling for Legion or exile, but death and dismemberment is the more likely bet."

_"__And how much trouble are we in with Beraht?" _The law was one thing. But judging by the bloodstains on the walls, they weren't dealing with the city guard anymore.

Leske let out a slow whistle. "Jarvia will probably pull our teeth out one by one and then have them made into a necklace, then probably chop out our tongues—sorry, I mean my tongue, then cut off our eyelids and break our kneecaps. Then I suspect Beraht will have us hung upside down by our small toes until all the blood rushes to our heads and our brains explode." They were silent for a moment. "Yeah, I'd rather take my chances with the city law."

Liri cracked her knuckles. _"Beraht said he'd go for Rica if we were caught. We need to move."_

The dungeon door swung open. Jarvia eyed them in their cells with nothing short of delight. "Good. You're awake. Beraht will be glad to hear that."

_"__What do you want?" _To break their fingers one by one and wear their flesh as a trophy, probably.

"You caused a lot of trouble today. Beraht lost a hundred sovereigns for Lord Vollney. The entire Proving was declared invalid, and the Assembly already called for an investigation. You can't imagine the state Beraht was in when he told me to get you," sneered Jarvia.

_"__We didn't have any other choice. Just let me explain what happened."_

Jarvia waved a hand dismissively. "All Beraht needs to know is that you exposed him in front of not only the entire Warrior caste, but also the ruling house. Now, all the high castes are asking questions. And as long as you have tongues—or hands—to answer them, you're a threat. Enjoy your last night together. Sorry we had to put you in separate cells, or I'd suggest you have a last tumble." Jarvia laughed, throwing her parting words at them over her shoulder as she walked out the door. "Beraht will be by soon to make sure you maintain your silence."

Well. That was that, then.

Liri looked at the guard left behind. She'd seen him around before—loyal exclusively to Jarvia, but dumb as a pile of rocks. He also didn't know hand speech, so talking with him would be a mite complicated.

Fortunately, she knew how to communicate with his type without any kind of words.

The clothes she wore were little more than a burlap shift. Not only was it extremely ugly, but also uncomfortably itchy to boot.

She grabbed it and pulled it up and off her body.

Leske made a choking sound. She didn't know what he was all excited about—it wasn't anything he hadn't seen before. Probably just shocked that this was her go-to plan.

The guard turned around at Leske's strangled sounds. "What's—oh. Oh-ho. Oh," he said, so very intelligently as he took in the fact that she was standing naked in the cell. "What's… what're you doing?" His feet carried him towards her cell without him seeming to even realize it.

Liri gave him an innocent look, fanning herself with her hand, trying to convey that she was simply overheated. She leaned on the bars, putting her features on obvious display. He was standing very, very close now. His breath was awful.

She reached out sharply, catching him by his shoulders and slamming his skull forcefully into the bars. He collapsed onto the floor.

Leske, no longer able to contain himself, started laughing. "You are one crazy duster—you know that, right?"

_"__Never underestimate the stupidity of lusty dwarven men," _she signed before lifting the keys off his body.

Leske frowned. "I feel a little called out."

Liri shrugged. If the shoe fit, after all. She tossed him the keys once she was out and started stripping the guard of his gear. As iconic as it would be to storm out in nothing but her name-day suit, it was a pinch impractical. He didn't actually have much in the way of weaponry, only a small club and a dagger. Better than nothing.

By the time she'd finished adjusting her newly stolen armor, Leske had found a trunk in the corner with gear and was half-way through armoring up.

_"__We'll probably have to carve our way through most of this place. Ready for a fight?"_

"Let's go."

The first room of men they encountered attacked them nearly on-sight. Thankfully, there were only four of them.

"You know, given your reputation, Beraht probably should have left a lot more guards."

_"__What's the matter, disappointed?"_

Leske shook his head as both of them picked up better weapons from the dead goons. Liri made sure to pocket their coppers. "No, just… I knew these guys." Leske was a little pale in the face as he looked at the dead dwarves. Liri recognized a few of them, but she didn't have any names to put to the faces. Leske shrugged. "Come on, time's rusting."

The next several encounters went the same way, and this time, Liri recognized more and more of the dwarves that leapt to attack them. A few of them she even tried to talk down with no avail.

She looked at the dwarves at her feet. Ezbektek. Rulen. Herles.

Beraht expected them to escape. That's why there was only one guard in the room with them, and about the dumbest the carta had to offer. He expected them to escape, and he was making them carve through every friend they'd ever made in his service.

Liri looked at the end of the hall. Beyond the next door, she was sure she'd find the boss himself. And he would be ready for them. He was making them walk to their execution.

Liri clenched her teeth. Not if she could help it.

She turned and motioned for Leske to follow her into the stockroom. She ran the odds in her head. Traps were unlikely—that was Jarvia's style, not his. So muscle. Likely upwards of ten heavily armed dusters waiting to ambush them before they could reach the exit. Yeah, that was definitely more his style.

The store room had a lot of things. Most were useless unless you knew what you were doing. She started digging through crates, trying to find the ingredients she needed.

Leske hovered over her as she worked. "What are you doing?"

Liri glared at him. As she was currently busy crushing different ingredients between two rocks, she was unable to reply.

After a few short minutes she capped a flask and turned to go. Ordinarily she'd like to let the mixture settle for a day or two, but they were a bit pressed for time. As it was, it would give them just enough punch to get through this.

Liri stopped at the door the the large chamber and pressed her ear to the stone, listening.

"I'm cutting the whore free. If that freak for a sister of her's can't stay in her place, I don't need precious Rica, either."

Liri breathed a sigh of relief. Rica was alive.

"Rica? That the one you got all done up in lace? I been wanting to get my hands on that."

"Heh. I know what you mean."

Liri pushed the door open.

"She's all yours if you want her, boys. And let me tell you… it tastes as good as it looks."

Liri resisted the massive urge to rush forwards and stab Beraht in the face. She tapped Leske to keep him from doing the same. For this to work, they needed to be by the door.

Beraht and eleven other dwarves waited for them in the room, all built like brontos and armed to the teeth. Unfortunately, her hunch had been right.

Beraht turned to them, sneering. "What in sod-all is that doing out of its cage?" He asked like he didn't already know. "Come on boys, the little whore needs to learn her place."

With one hand, Liri raised a rude gesture into the air. With the other, she began to shake the small vial. When the men pulled their blades she hurled it into their midst.

She grabbed Leske and pulled him back into the hallway, closing the stone door as poison gas filled the room. The two of them leaned their weight against the stone to keep the men from pushing it open. The resistance from the other side was weak, at best. The men were gasping, coughing, some screaming.

Leske turned to her with wide eyes. "What did you do to them?"

_"__Soulrot bomb," _she signed. _"This one didn't have time to settle, so it'll only be effective for a couple minutes at best. But it's enough to give us a chance."_

The two of them waited until she was certain they wouldn't be harmed by the gas before entering the room. A green haze still hung in the air, but it didn't harm them any at this point. None of the thugs were dead, but they weren't that far from it. All she and Leske really had to do was slit their throats as they walked by. Beraht was the most lucid of them, leaning on one knee and looking up at them in rage.

"When we're done with you—"

He never got to finish the threat, as he choked on his own blood when Liri pulled her blade across his neck. He slumped to the stone, harmless.

Leske laughed. "Did you see him there, all 'when we're done with you,' and then you just charged in and sodding slaughtered him! You have got to be the luckiest duster in all of Orzammar. Beraht's dead and we're standing here. Hail to the sodding king!"

Liri sheathed her weapons. _"As long as he never made it to Rica."_

"Well, he sure was talking like she's alive. But I won't turn down the chance to take another peek. Hey, could you tell Rica I killed him? I mean, it doesn't do you any good if she thinks you're the most virile warrior in all the Stone…"

Liri glared at him. Some things would never change. _"Are you sure you want to say that while I'm armed?"_

"Ah—ah, excellent point," Leske shuffled nervously. "Now let's go find a good place to hide."

They didn't even get the chance. No sooner had they pulled the door of the cover shop before they were surrounded by city guards.

"There they are! Seize the fugitives!" The guard captain ordered. "Drop your weapons and walk down slowly. We will use force if you resist."

_"__I carved through the carta. I'll carve through you, too." _Liri signed. It was probably not a very good idea to be threatening the guards. But at this point, she couldn't be bothered to care.

The captain sputtered in rage. "You do not speak until the Shapers have judged you!"

Technically, she wasn't speaking, so she didn't see what he was all upset about. _"You should really be thanking me. I just did you guards a big favor."_

The guard stopped paying attention to her halfway through her sentence. "Men, restrain them!"

"One moment, good man." Liri blinked. Maybe the lingering Soulrot gas had affected her a little after all. Had the Grey Warden been standing there this whole time? Humans were kind of hard to miss, after all. "Was it not suggested that the crime lord Beraht had arranged their convenient escape?"

Was he… trying to defend them? And was that Rica standing behind him? The fumes were definitely screwing with her brain.

"Regardless, the penalty for impersonating a higher caste is death."

_"__Actually it's public flaying. But yeah, a side effect of that is usually death, so go on I guess." _For a guard, he didn't know his own rules very well. Not exactly something that instills faith in one's city security. The guard went red in the face.

"If Beraht is as influential as you say, perhaps he also masterminded Everd's impersonation."

Not… exactly? But close enough, she supposed. The whole impersonation thing hadn't been at all a part of the plan. She wasn't sure if that helped or hurt her case. _"Last I saw of Beraht, he was suffering from a bad case of dead," _she signed, inclining her head back towards the door to make the implication clear.

The guard captain blinked up at her, taking a moment to fully comprehend what she'd said. "He's dead? Beraht had many enemies, but also powerful allies. They—"

"Beraht would have butchered us if she hadn't killed him first!" Leske said, crossing his arms.

"She has once again demonstrated her courage." Duncan was smiling. Why was he smiling? "We Grey Wardens travel far and wide in search of those with the potential to join our ranks. It seems I have found one."

Oh. _"You want… me. You want me to join the Grey Wardens? A casteless dwarf? Are you sure you know what you're doing?" _Weren't the Grey Wardens like, legendary knights? What did they want with a duster like her?

He nodded. "Let me make my offer formal. I, Duncan of the Grey Wardens, extend the invitation for you to join our order."

The guard captain turned angrily to the human. "This woman is wanted for crimes against Orzammar and against the Ancestors. You can't do this!"

Duncan barely even glanced down at him, focused solely on Liri. "I can and I am. It would mean traveling to the surface lands and thus leaving your people, but it does offer you the chance to strike a blow against the darkspawn and the Blight."

And the opportunity to, you know, not get arrested.

This couldn't be real. Nothing this… good, had ever happened to her in her life. Not without it coming back to bite her in the ass. _"What's the trick?" _There had to be a catch. There had to be.

"While it is no trick, it is a dangerous life. I can promise you no guarantee of safety. I can also give you nothing in return for these hazards. In joining me, you leave all you know behind."

If danger dissuaded her, she wouldn't be in this situation to begin with. And if joining would save her life, it wasn't even much of a debate.

She caught Rica's eye through the crowd. Her sister nodded.

_"__I guess you can count me as a Grey fucking Warden."_

Duncan looked like he was trying very hard not to smile. "Then before these witnesses, I hereby recruit you into the Grey Wardens. Know that you are most welcome."

"This… is highly irregular. The warrior families will be… most upset." The guard captain sounded very much like he wanted to hit something.

Leske chuckled, nudging her arm. "Look at you, duster. A Warden! And to think I knew you when you were stealing bread!

"We must be off now, and quickly. If you have goodbyes to say, say them now," said Duncan. The human turned a pace away, and the guards dispersed across the street, dispelling the crowd that had gathered to watch the situation.

"From Dust Town to the Grey Wardens… you don't watch out, salroka, you'll end up a Paragon. And then I'll never hear the end of it."

_"__Nugs will fly before the Assembly names someone like me a Paragon." _There was a lot she wanted to say to Leske. For all the shit they gave each other, he was the only solid friend she had in the city. _"I'll miss you, Leske."_

"Aw… that's the problem with women. Too sentimental."

Liri punched his shoulder. He cried out and winced, holding his arm. She hoped it bruised. _"Just remember that I can still break you with one hand."_

"I'd be a fool to forget." He chuckled. "I'll miss you too. Now go on, get out of here." Without another word, Leske turned and slipped into the alley behind the shop and disappeared into the depths of the city.

She wondered if she'd ever see him again.

Liri hadn't even turned around before Rica all but tackled her with a hug. Liri gasped, unable to breathe. She rubbed her ribs after her sister finally released her, afraid something was broken.

Rica, busied herself with fixing Liri's hair. "I can't believe you're leaving. And as a Grey Warden! When Ser Duncan said he wanted to recruit you, I nearly fell over. When I heard you were arrested… I rushed to the arena, but by then you were gone, and Ser Duncan and Prince Aothor were telling everyone they had to find you and were already coordinating the search parties."

Liri blinked. _"Prince Aothor was involved?"_

"Oh yes. He was adamant that you be brought in alive and unharmed."

That… didn't really make sense. But it didn't really matter, now. She was leaving. For good. _"Will it be safe for you, if I leave?"_

Rica was practically glowing as she nodded. "This has been a lucky day for us both. I spent the afternoon with my new patron. If everything works out, I may even be able to greet you as an equal when you return."

When. Not if.

_"__Truly? You won't starve?"_

"Yes. For the first time, I think mother and I will be fine. He… he calls me his amber rose. Isn't that sweet? He has a voice like a poet. He has already promised to move mother and I into better lodging, where he can find me more quickly when he wants me."

_"__And you're sure you'll be happy like this?"_

Rica placed a hand on Liri's shoulder in reassurance. "I am. Truly, I could never make a life fighting darkspawn. But if I can bear a son who makes his house proud, that's all I can ask." Rica pulled her into another hug—this one didn't crush her lungs. "Go. Tell Duncan you're ready to be more than a whore's little sister. You've always been too big for Dust Town. Maybe you'll be the one to save the world."

_"__Maybe I will." _Liri let go of Rica with monumental effort. _"I love you, Rica. Stay safe."_

"I am glad you were able to speak once more with those that care for you. Are you ready to go?" Duncan asked. Liri nodded. There wasn't much else to say. "Excellent. Before we brave the Deep Roads, I would like to make you a gift of this mace, since you have so few possessions of your own. It was once wielded by the Warden Foral Aeducan. I believe he was related to your king. I am certain you will continue his proud example."

Liri turned the mace over in her hands. The craftsmanship was beyond anything she'd ever seen in her life. She smiled. If being a Grey Warden meant getting fun toys like this, then this was definitely the life for her.

—

Aothor was just about to bring his search team into Dust Town when a runner informed them that the casteless woman had been found—and immediately recruited into the Grey Wardens.

Aothor tried not to be irritated as his team returned to the Diamond Quarter. It was the outcome he'd wanted, after all. But just not the way he wanted it to happen. Ideally it would have been done formally in a trial before the Shapers, not in the middle of the street.

It still made a statement. Just one he had less control over.

Trian stood in the entry chamber of the palace, obviously waiting for them. Aothor sighed. It was already that sort of day.

Aothor bowed, as did Gorim at his side. "Greetings, brother. You are looking well." He looked upset, which was as close to well as Trian got.

"Where have you been all day?" Leave it to Trian to be direct.

"I competed in todays Proving, as I was scheduled to. There was a bit of a situation that arose, and I remained until everything was settled and in order."

"You were meant to attend tonights dinner with the leaders of House Brodens and House Rousten. Your absence is an offense and brings shame upon our house. Have you no sense of duty, brother?"

"I am aware, my lord," said Aothor, straightening his posture. "I simply prioritized the apprehension of a criminal who defiled one of the most sacred places in our city over canapés with Lady Brodens and Lord Rousten."

"That is a job for the city guardsman. You are a prince, and your negligence to your duty has insulted our allies. Despite your upcoming commission as a commander, but you have shown you would rather play soldier than attend to your place as a Prince of Orzammar."

Aothor bit down on his tongue. Arguing with Trian was a bad idea. It was best to allow him to think he'd won, if for no other reason than it was the only thing that would shut him up. "As you say, my lord. Will that be all?"

"Get to bed. You will be attending tomorrow morning's strategy meetings with Father and the Grey Wardens for the strike into the deep. Do not be late." Trian left them without another word.

Gorim let out a slow breath. "He seemed… tense."

"When is he not?" Aothor mused as they walked down the hall. Once they were alone in his room with no ears to hear, he sighed. The statement had been made, but probably in the worst way possible. Time for damage control. "How much would you guess today has cost us?"

"Hard to say until the backlash hits. Houses Rousten and Brodens will be offended, obviously, but I imagine they'll get over it quickly. I would advise making personal visits of apology, just in case." Gorim stroked his beard thoughtfully. "The fact that you personally involved yourself with the search does get you points with the Warrior Caste Houses, however. They like to see you being involved with the men. Keeps them inspired. But…"

"… but the Noble Caste Houses will disapprove. Still, as long as it's viewed as taking a personal interest in restoring order and apprehending a casteless criminal, I doubt even the most traditional families will raise any fuss."

"Yeah, about that…" said Gorim. Aothor braced himself. "Duncan gave Foral Aeducan's mace to the casteless woman when he recruited her. In public. And it's already known you intended to present it to the victor or furthest advanced in today's Proving. It won't be hard for anyone to piece two and two together."

Aothor shook his head, beginning to remove his gear. "Right. That's going to ruffle some beards."

"To put it lightly. I knew passing it off was a risky move."

"Alright… that can easily be explained. As there was no victor of the Proving, I simply returned the mace to it's place with the Grey Wardens. What they did with it after is not my concern." That wouldn't be good enough, but it should serve to redirect the worst of the ire.

"There will still be some who make the connection. Or others who will think to invent one as an excuse," said Gorim.

Aothor sighed, placing his armor on its rack. "So basically we probably pissed off enough lords to expect at least three assassination attempts in the next week. How do you think they'll go about it?"

Gorim considered for a moment before pulling a few coins from his purse. "Four sovereigns says one goes for poison, two go for blades."

"Oh, you think they'll be brave this time?" Aothor mused, matching the coin count. "My coin is on all three trying poison."

"You're on."

—

"These are my fellow Grey Wardens, Sam, Oliver, and Farrien." Each of the human men nodded as Duncan said their names. "And you've already met Edmund Amell, a Grey Warden recruit like yourself."

Liri observed the humans around her. Her neck was going to start hurting pretty quickly, craned back to look up at them like it was. Two of the Wardens seemed to be warriors, while one of them carried a bow. Her fellow recruit was dressed more like a noble than a soldier and carried a walking stick.

Wardens took all types, she supposed. She was proof enough of that.

"We will be accompanying a strike team into the Deep Roads in a few days. Until that time, it would be best if you did not leave the compound, for your own safety."

She nodded. The compound itself was easily ten times bigger than her house. She practically felt like royalty just standing in there.

Duncan nodded to Edmund. "Please show Liri to the armory. Both of you will need new equipment before we head into the Deep Roads."

"Of course," the man said, turning down the hall.

The armory wasn't as grande as she'd been imagining, but what was there was obviously of fine make. Liri touched a set of plate mail with borderline reverence. Everything she'd worn before—and what she was currently wearing—was pieced together from scrap leather, mostly from old shoes.

She passed the plate and found a set of heavy leather armor. Luckily this was made for a dwarf and would only need to be tightened in some places to fit her well. She lifted the set against her body. A loud crash came from the other side of the room followed by a loud string of curses and she turned to see Edmund on the floor, tangled in a set of light chainmail and cloth.

She moved to stand over him. Weird feeling, looking down at a human. _"What are you doing?"_

"I'm trying on armor, obviously," he said, completely deadpan. Liri gave him a questioning look. "I'm a mage, ok? It's not like we go wearing armor around the Circle on a daily basis. I have no idea what I'm doing."

Liri sighed and offered him a hand, and helped him to his feet. _"You're a mage? Like, those people who talk to demons and shit lightning?"_

"I prefer fire to lightning, and usually try to keep the demons to a minimum, but yeah, basically," he said, peeling the light armor off of himself. "Have you never met a mage before? I thought carta hired apostates sometimes."

_"__Sometimes. I never worked with any, though. You surfacers tend to stick out around here, and my line of work usually relied on not being noticed." _She showed him how to adjust the straps and actually wear the armor properly. She eyed his "walking stick" leaning against the wall. She wondered when she'd actually get to see some magic in action. _"Have you ever seen darkspawn before?"_

"Never in person. Pictures though, in books. Nasty beasties," Edmund said, trying the armor again. He struggled with it a bit, but managed not to fall over again. "I'll probably have it easier than you, though. At least I can hurt them from a distance. You've got to get up-close and personal."

Liri shrugged. _"That's what bombs are for."_

Edmund stilled. "You know how to make bombs?" He grinned. "Teach me."

Liri chuckled. The mage was ok.

—

Making bombs with Liri was easily the most fun he'd had since arriving in Thedas. She had a sort of manic energy about her as she showed him to proper steps involved in making a pitch grenade. He proposed the idea that if they made the components flammable, in addition to slowing darkspawn down, he could also light them up. They set to work testing different types of grease and oils.

Over the course of the four days they spent in the compound, they managed to set the dinning room on fire three different times and cover the bathing floors with a questionable green slime. The other Wardens were less than pleased.

Liri just seemed to be glad for something to do and someone to talk to. Of the Wardens, only he and Duncan understood hand-speech, and Duncan spent nearly all of his waking hours away from the compound researching at the Shaperate.

He only saw Pride once while they were Orzammar. The demon lurked in the swirling grey nothingness of his dreams.

"Why can I only use fire?" he asked the spirit, holding a small flame in his hand. It burned bright, feeding off of the steady stream of mana he fed into it.

"You can use more than fire," Pride answered.

"Not reliably."

The demon prowled around him. "Every mage has an affinity for something. Healing. Barriers. Some are even more naturally inclined towards blood magic." he explained. "When a mage is young, they default to their inclination. You are as young a mage as any there ever was, in terms of your ability. But magic stretches as far as one's imagination, and imagination stretches as far as one's knowledge. You have plenty of both."

Edmund fed more heat into the flame. It turned from orange to blue and grew smaller, but more intense. Like a rod of fire, or a welding tool. "So you're saying that as long as I practice, I'll be able to move beyond basic combustion."

"Yes, and no."

"Helpful." The flame flickered at his frustration. For a moment he thought it would die, but instead it exploded. Because of course it did.

Pride laughed. It liked to see him struggling. "You are an invader. Living in flesh not yours. The magic at your command is, likewise, not yours, and thus will never truly obey you. You are a foot crammed into a shoe of the wrong size—you can walk, but if you attempt to run, you will stumble."

"Great. I love being compared to a foot."

"If I offend you so, perhaps you should have sought out a deal with Compassion, not Pride."

Compassion. Cole.

Edmund shook the thought of the spirit boy away. "You mentioned blood magic, earlier. Honestly, I'm surprised you haven't offered to teach that to me. I though that was part of the whole 'I'm an evil demon who eats babies and possesses mages' schtick."

Pride shrugged, continuing with his circular prowl. Edmund reminded himself that while their deal held, he was still being hunted. "Ordinarily. But I do not think you could perform blood magic."

"Why not?"

"Do you want to?" The demon asked, looking down at him curiously.

Edmund considered. Maybe. It was supposed to be something of a shortcut, as far as magic was concerned. And there wasn't anything inherently wrong with it, as long as he didn't go killing people to fuel his magic. And it was powerful.

"Would I be able to?"

"No. For the same reason that I am not able to possess you. A soul is a fragile thing, mageling. Yours holds by a thread. Blood magic would, I think, sever the connection entirely."

"You're saying it would kill me?"

"I am uncertain," Pride grinned, wicked teeth on full display, "Want to find out?"

Edmund shuddered. "Maybe some other time." He sighed. They would be going into the Deep Roads by the week's end. "Can we start working on barriers and shields? I need to be able to provide defense."

"Ah, but I have done much tonight already. It's your turn. And if you want to begin barriers tonight as well, I will require something extra."

Pride stilled, and it was Edmunds turn to pace the circle around him. He considered the options before him. Pride found the technology from earth fascinating, but maybe it was time for a change of pace. Something… a little closer to the demon's interests.

"Have you ever heard of Soldier's Peak?"


	6. A Kingdom Beneath (Part 3)

"Greetings, my lord. You are dressed and ready. Excellent." Aothor turned to see his second leaning in the doorway.

"Good morning. I believe you owe me four sovereigns," said Aothor, nodding to his untouched breakfast tray. Gorim frowned and inspected the plate.

"In the grilled nug?"

"No, though it was a bit undercooked. Shameful."

Gorim prodded the eggs curiously. "Ah, smells just a little bit sour. It's… deathroot? Spider venom?"

"Yes and yes. Quiet Death, if I'm not mistaken. They really weren't playing around."

"Suspects?"

"The last two were Gavorn and Rousten. This one, though… I'm not so sure," said Aothor, accepting the coins from Gorim.

"I'll arrange for a quiet investigation in the meantime. I couldn't find the armor's matching dagger, but I scrounged up a rather fancy longsword. Do you wish to wear your shield to the noble's feast?"

"Of course," said Aothor, strapping the shield to the back of his ceremonial armor. "Let them see me as a warrior."

"If every other noble has a shield and three swords, you'll feel awfully underdressed," Gorim chuckled.

"You, my friend, are ridiculous."

"One can't take all this marching about and speech-making too seriously. Moving on to the business at hand… the king expects you to make an appearance at the feast, but there's no rush. The noble family heads will spend hours boring your father with petitions and petty grievances."

Aothor shook his head at his friend. "The art of ruling is hardly boring, Gorim."

Gorim shrugged. "If you say so. Listening to a hundred lords complaining that their neighbors use the same underhanded tactics they themselves employ would tire on me after about… oh, a minute? 'This lord had my brother killed,' 'This lord seduced my wife,' 'This lord did the exact thing I'd planned to do to him, but he did it first.'"

"You do have a point, unfortunately. Many among the nobility pretend they are the honorable man in a den of thieves and assassins when they're truly just as corrupt as their neighbors."

"An unfortunate truth. You, my lord, are at least an example to the rest, what they could aspire to be."

"Excellent. Because there's not enough pressure in my life. Thanks."

"Just doing my duty." Gorim laughed. "Anyways, as part of the celebrations, permits have been auctioned off to the Merchant Caste who wished to sell wares in the Diamond Quarter. Lord Harrowmont has also opened up the proving for young warriors to test their mettle before tomorrow's battle. Perhaps we should go show them what single combat is all about. And by we, I mean you. Heh, I'll practice my cheering."

Probably for the best, Aothor decided. Gorim was an excellent second, but on his own in a fight he left himself with too many openings. Nearly got his skull cracked last year.

"I could do with some exercise, and I want a chance to earn my dignity back after last week. Let's go have a look at this Proving," said Aothor.

A woman approached them as they walked down the hall. "My Lord Bhelen?"

Aothor turned to her. He looked like his brother, certainly, but very rarely did anyone confuse the two of them. He blinked at the sight of the woman, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him. For a second he was back in the arena, facing down the casteless warrior. He blinked again. A casteless woman, but not the same one from last week, stood in the palace halls. She simply bore an uncanny resemblance to the woman he fought in the Proving.

Still, a casteless was roaming the palace. Trian would have an aneurysm if he found out.

The woman went deathly pale, realizing who she was speaking to. "Oh! I am sorry… I am so sorry, your Highness." The casteless woman beat a hasty retreat down the hall, and into Bhelen's room.

Aothor glanced at Gorim, who shook his head. "We should probably leave it be."

Aothor chuckled. "Now what kind of older brother would I be if I didn't snoop unnecessarily into my younger sibling's affairs?"

Gorim groaned, but followed dutifully after him into Bhelen's chambers.

The casteless woman half-hid her face behind her hands. "I… I'm sorry. I thought you were Prince Bhelen coming down the hall. I… forgive me."

She was certainly very pretty, Aothor noted. Eyes like serpentstone and ruby-red hair done up in braids and blemish-free skin—save for the obvious black brand on her cheek. It wasn't hard to deduce what Bhelen had her here for, especially when the neckline of her gown plunged lower than the deeps themselves.

Her resemblance to the woman he'd fought last week was uncanny. He wondered idly if it was possible there was a relation between the two of them.

"No harm done, my lady."

"I will show myself out, with your leave, my lord."

Aothor held up his hands in what he hoped was a calming motion. "Don't leave on my account, though you may go if you wish. I'll not mention you to anyone."

The two dwarven men left her in the room as they continued down the hall.

"You're not having her removed?" Gorim asked once they were out of earshot.

"Now why would I do that?" Aothor asked, composing his face into what he hoped was convincing innocence.

Gorim had known him too long to fall for it. "You're hoping she hangs around so Trian finds out Bhelen's been… inviting… a casteless dwarf into the palace," Gorim said, shaking his head. "You, my prince, are more manipulative than you let on."

"Hush. I have a reputation to uphold."

The Diamond Quarter was a bustle with activity. Merchants called to passersby to observe their goods and nobles stood in debate at every corner.

One such debate was happening very loudly right in front of the palace doors.

Bruntin Vollney was barking down at another man, a scholar, if Aothor was right.

"I-I'm sure we can work this out reasonably… i-it's in the records! There's nothing I can do! Pleas Master Vollney, my work is accredited by the Shapers."

"These books are lies written by the enemies of house Vollney," Bruntin growled.

"I only write what I find in the records!" The scholar turned at Aothor's approach, a plea in his eyes. "Lord Aeducan! You can vouch for my work, can't you? Your father loved my 'History of Aeducan: Paragon, King, Peacemaker!"

"I recall the book, yes. A well written study."

Bruntin went red in the face. "This… worm, has written a book that slanders my house!"

"Your behavior slanders your house," Aothor said evenly. "What does the book in question say?"

"It doesn't matter, it's all lies!"

"I asked you what the book said, Bruntin. I expect an answer when I ask a question."

Bruntin gulped, shifting in place. "He says that Vollney—the Paragon who founded my house, known throughout the world as the greatest of men—was a fraud!"

"N-not precisely," the scholar interjected. "When the Assembly names a Paragon, that man or woman is, by definition, everything one can aspire to be in the world. They form their own noble houses, and are revered as living ancestors. But Paragons start off as men."

"Vollney was more than a man!"

"And why has this work upset Bruntin so badly?"

"Vollney became a Paragon by the narrowest margin in history—one vote. A vote mired in rumors of intimidation, intrigue, and outright bribery. The records of that vote are kept in the Shaperate and are a matter of fact." The scholar glared at Bruntin. "Not liking history does not make it any less true."

"You have an excellent point, scholar."

"You're taking his side? What if he published a book like this about your Paragon Aeducan?"

"Covering up the truth harms us all, Bruntin. Even if a lie would be more comfortable."

Bruntin crossed his arms across his chest. The effect was rather childlike. "You would not say so if it was your house, but I will respect your wishes. For now. Excuse me, your highness."

"That fool has no idea how weak his house is or how low he sits in it," said Gorim after Bruntin's retreat. "Shall I have him killed, my lord?"

Aothor looked after the way Bruntin had gone. He hated to waste. Waste of life, waste of skill. But Bruntin wasn't putting either to good use. "What do you think, scholar?"

"Well… historically it has been prudent to eliminate a small threat before it becomes larger…"

He turned to his second. "Hear that, Gorim? Do the prudent thing." After last week, now was not the time for statements. Now was the time to re-establish his hold.

Gorim nodded in understanding. "How do you want it done?"

Aothor considered for a moment. "Publicly. Make sure everyone knows why."

"Understood." Gorim turned away.

The scholar looked at him with something approaching admiration. "You're shown yourself more daring and aggressive today than most believed of you. Some day, I hope to write of the great exploits you are sure to perform."

"Word has been sent," said Gorim, returning to his side. "He won't live past the hour."

The scholar bowed to him. "You've shown House Aeducan to be a friend to research, history, and the glory of our people."

"Make sure you remember this when you write about me."

"Of course. Heroism and pity for the small man have always been hallmarks of House Aeducan," said the scholar. Somebody needed to tell that to Trian. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must try to make sense of these notes. Good day your Highness, and thank you." He ran off to the Shaperate.

Aothor sighed. "If the poison didn't already set the tone for the day, I'm certain that just did."

"Happy birthday," Gorim chuckled. "Come on, the market awaits."

The wares on display ranged from the fine works of local smiths to surfacer pastries imported all the way from the Orlesian empire. The merchants fawned over him whenever he neared a booth, overstating their honor for his attention and showing off their goods with pride.

His attention, however, was drawn to two casteless women standing slightly apart from the crowd. He approached them curiously, and they giggled to themselves as they noticed them.

"What have we here? Two handsome, strapping noble lords! You both look so grand," said the blonde, fanning herself with her hand.

"And isn't this the man of the hour? The king's son?" said the brunette, looking him over in a way that made him feel akin to a roast nug.

He took them in. Casteless, but beautiful women dressed in fine silk and jewelry. Noble hunters, obviously. Like the girl in Bhelen's room. The girls turned their focus to Gorim, who fidgeted noticeably under their attention.

"Who's your friend, my lord? Another noble from the honored House Aeducan?"

"This is my loyal second," Aothor said. They were both certainly very… attractive. And it was his birthday.

"But not from a noble house, girls. Ser Gorim, Warrior Caste."

The blonde sighed. "Oh, that's too bad. You're quite handsome."

"Worry not. You've still got the attention of a handsome prince," he said, winking suggestively.

The brunette giggled. "That you are, my lord. Can I interest you in a little bedded diversion?"

"For you, my lady, I'm always interested in bedded diversion."

She giggled, and he saw something like hope fill her eyes. "Shall I come to your chambers after the ceremony, then—?"

The blonde crossed her arms indignantly. "I talked to him first! I want him."

"He's looking for a woman, Teli, not a little girl." The brunette chided. "I'm Mardy. And I know how to give my lord a night he'll remember."

Aothor grinned. "I don't saw why both isn't an option."

"Oh, my lord has his energy about him!" Mardy said, glancing at her fellow noble-hunter. "There will be no three-to-a-bed, if that's what you're thinking. We'll both require… full experiences, all to ourselves. If you think you can manage us both, though…"

"Rest assured, my ladies. I'm more than up to the task," he said, and the two broke into another fit of giggles.

"This should prove most interesting. We will wait for you together, my lord, and show you the proper way to celebrate a princely commission!"

"I await with bated breath. Until this evening." Aothor kissed each woman on the hand before turning back down the road.

Gorim gave him an amused look. "Well, at least I can rest easy knowing you'll be well taken care of."

Aothor shrugged, grinning at his friend. "What can I say? It's my birthday, and I don't see anything wrong with celebrating it in such a way. Besides, House Aeducan can always use more blades, and if it gets them out of Dust Town, then even better. A win all around, wouldn't you say?"

"If you insist."

"Aw, your just jealous because they didn't want you because you're Warrior Caste." Aothor shoved Gorim's shoulder

"Am not." Gorim shoved him back.

"Are too."

"Don't you have a reputation to uphold or something?"

"Hush. Let me enjoy some of the perks of my station."

His good cheer lasted for about two whole minutes before shattering like broken glass. Trian was storming down the street in his direction, Bhelen ever in his shadow. Trian looked slightly more grumpy than usual, which was actually a mite impressive.

"Atrast vala, Aothor! How surprising to run into you out among the common folk," said Bhelen. Aothor glanced around. The nobles and wealthy merchants around them barely seemed to classify as "the common folk" to him.

Trian crossed his arms. "Especially since duty requires that you attend our king father at the feast today. Have you so little respect for him to disregard his wishes on a day set aside for you?"

"Lord Harrowmont told me we wouldn't be needed for hours at least—"

"Silence!" Trian barked, "If I want the opinion of my sibling's second, I will ask for it."

Gorim hung his head and took a step back from the conversation. "Yes, your Highness."

Aothor frowned. He and Gorim were more brothers than he and Trian were. "Please do not speak to Gorim like that," said Aothor. If it were anyone else but Trian he was speaking to, he would be ordering it.

"I speak to lower houses and castes as they should be spoken to. Now do as I say."

Aothor looked to his younger sibling, who was rubbing his forehead tiredly. "Bhelen, it seems ages since we've had the chance to talk. How are you doing today?"

Bhelen gave him a small smile. "I've been dealing with him all afternoon. How do you think I'm doing?"

Trian rounded on the youngest brother. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

Bhelen shrugged innocently. "Nothing, Trian. I've been having a great time. That speech you gave the legless boy about hard work and making something of himself was fantastic…"

"As heir to the throne, it is my duty to impart wisdom and judgement upon those who need it." Trian said, completely missing the sarcasm in Bhelen's voice. Aothor and Bhelen shared a knowing look. Stone, if Trian was more of an ass, he'd practically be a donkey. "Now then, Aothor, get to the feast!"

"I will go when I am ready," Aothor said.

Trian scowled. "Stubborn, aren't you? When I'm king, I will help you get over that. Come, Bhelen."

Aothor offered Bhelen a sympathetic smile as he passed. Ancestors preserve him—if he was the one who had to follow Trian about all day, he wasn't sure he would go a week without knocking the crown-prince's skull in. Bhelen must have the patience of the Stone itself.

Gorim let out a slow breath. "That was fun. Nothing like being talked down to by the next king."

"Hopefully becoming king will calm Trian."

"We can only hope. Perhaps we should get going?"

He purchased some snacks for the two of them from one of the food vendors—the merchant nearly burst into tears when he'd done so—and they continued on their way. He caught sight of another weapons stand and gravitated towards it.

"I am… so honored to have you visit my booth," the merchant said. Aothor nodded absently. He'd heard those exact words a thousand times already today. "Your highness, I have a… proposition, but I dared not approach."

Gorim looked at the man incredulously. "Yet you dare now?"

Aothor motioned for the man to continue. "If you have something to say, say it quickly."

"Um, yes. Just so. Here is the thing. What I mean to say is…"

Aothor rubbed his forehead as the merchant stammered on. "Should I walk away and come back so you can try again?"

"No, no my lord. I'm sorry, I'm just so nervous." The man took a deep breath and composed himself. "I had a dagger made. For you. A gift for your first command. I, uh, sent a messenger to deliver the dagger to you. Prince Trian had him thrown out of the palace. I don't know what offense he caused, but I had him beaten severely."

Aothor frowned. There were many things in that story he could choose to remark upon. He thought better of it, and simply asked to see the blade in question.

The man presented it, cradling the dagger like he was holding a newborn babe. Aothor turned it over in his hands. Gorim looked over his shoulder as he inspected it and let out a low whistle.

"That's an amazing piece, merchant," Gorim remarked. That was an understatement. Despite it's ornamental appearance, it was easy and comfortable in his hand. The blade was strong, and when he tested it in his fingers he could tell it could keep a remarkable edge.

The merchant was glowing. "You do me much honor, ser. The blade has been crafted over a period of two years by masters of every art. I wished to bless your first command, and hope that someday, when he rules, he will wear it."

Aothor faltered.

"Trian is heir. He will rule when King Endrin returns to the Stone," said Gorim.

The merchant nodded slowly. "If the Assembly wills it. Forgive me, ser, but whispers say the second child of Endrin will be chosen."

"Whispers, indeed." Gorim eyed the dagger again. "It's a princely gift. If Trian recognizes it, though, it may send the wrong message," said Gorim. He gave Aothor a considering look. "Or the right one, depending on your view."

Aothor turned the blade over in his hands again, considering. He'd considered the possibility that he could be chosen instead. The Warrior Caste definitely favored him, if not most of the Nobles. But Trian was the named heir. For right now, that wasn't his place. Still…

"I'll take the dagger."

"Thank you! You bring uncountable honor to me," he said. Aothor accepted the matching sheath and attached it to his belt behind his longsword.

Gorim huffed as they turned away. "What he means is that you'll bring uncountable gold to him if you wear that piece in public."

"If he can manage to produce weapons of this quality, then I say he deserves it," said Aothor. He looked down at the dagger, tapping the blade with his fingers again. "This is Stormheart, if I'm not mistaken. It should take well to enchantments. Shall we go see if there's anyone about selling runes?"

He slipped the blade into it's sheath and they proceeded to the end of the market, where he spotted a stall that looked promising, given that half the items on display were glowing.

Aothor hadn't even said a greeting before the vendor began to stagger, pale in the face. "Prince Aothor! Here! In my booth? I am so…" He trailed off and collapsed on the ground, fainted.

Aothor peered over the edge of the booth at the unconscious man. It wasn't everyday he got that particular sort of reaction.

Gorim laughed softly at his side. "You make quite the impression these days." Gorim looked at him, something like sadness in his eyes. "Is it hard to be the king's child, never able to just blend in?"

Aothor sighed, turning away from the booth. "I am what the Ancestors made me."

Gorim nodded. "As are we all. Shall we move along?"

Aothor headed towards the gates to the Commons, where his escort to the Proving was waiting. After the way today was going, he really needed to hit something.

—

Liri paced the compound restlessly. Four days. It felt like so much longer than that, but that was all it had been. It was for her safety that Duncan insisted she stay, but it grated at her nerves to see the humans come and go as they pleased while she had to stay put.

The mage didn't leave the compound much. She couldn't tell if it was simply because he didn't

want to or he was hanging around for her sake. It was entertaining, watching Edmund's fumbling attempts at making grenades. More often than not the ingredients would start to smoke before he'd even bottled them. She wasn't sure if that was a mage thing, or just him.

After several days working together the two of them had balanced the pitch grenade mixture so it was equally flammable as it was sticky, and they had a good stockpile to bring with them to the Deep Roads to actually test out on darkspawn.

Darkspawn. Tomorrow, she'd actually be going into the Deep Roads.

Duncan and the three Wardens had already left for the day, attending some feast or something with the king. Edmund had chosen to stay behind, claiming he wanted to practice some magical techniques.

She found Edmund standing in the armory, his back to the door. Liri leaned in the entrance and watched him for a moment. The air around him seemed to fold, then shimmer, then became a solid sphere of light that encircled him. Curious, Liri picked a small pebble from the floor and tossed it at him.

It bounced off the light harmlessly.

But Edmund jolted, froze, and the barrier exploded into flames.

Edmund turned to her as the fire died out. "You broke my concentration."

Liri shrugged. _"Sorry. What were you trying to do?"_

Edmund sighed, turning his staff over in his grip. "Practicing. I'm trying to hold a barrier. I can get it up, and it's solid, but as soon as I loose focus…" he sighed, then made the hand signal for explosion to emphasize his point. "I'll get it though. I don't really have the choice to not."

_"__I've been meaning to ask, but how do you know hand speech?" _It wasn't nearly as common on the surface as in Orzammar, from what she knew.

"I had—have, a younger sister. Melody. She lost her hearing when she was really young. So my whole family learned. And Duncan knows some because he knew a Silent Sister who joined the Grey Wardens."

_"__You seem to know Duncan well." _She'd watched all the humans interacting together. Edmund only seemed to really speak to Duncan.

Edmund shrugged. "Not exactly. I'm going to try the barrier again, so stand back unless you want to lose your eyebrows." Liri did as he asked. She liked her eyebrows. Edmund looked at her for a moment, considering. "Hey, do you want to throw things at me?"

Liri gave him a questioning look. He could be a little obnoxious sometimes, but she hand't yet experienced the urge to hurl projectiles at him.

Edmund sighed fidgeting with his staff as he spoke. "No, I mean, like the whole point of these barriers is to stop arrows and blades, that kind of stuff. They're not strong enough for that yet, but the only way to get there is to practice. Could you throw things at me?"

Liri grinned, nodded, and turned from the room. There were some exceptionally stale loaves of bread in the kitchen that would work perfectly.

—

"Congratulations. Frandlin Ivo is as fierce a competitor as I've ever seen. You've vanquished every warrior of note in today's Proving. The ceremonial helm commissioned by your father for today's winner is yours."

The Proving Master held to helm out for him. Aothor shook his head. "I would like it given to Frandlin Ivo. He fought bravely today."

"The people will remember your honor and generosity for all time."

Aothor returned with his escort back to the Diamond Quarter. The mood of the people was vastly improved from last week. In fact, most everyone around him seemed content to pretend that last week's events had not occurred at all.

The first thing he noticed when he walked into the throne room was the four humans. Aothor stilled as he surveyed their group, then let out a breath of relief. Duncan, thankfully, had thought to leave the casteless dwarf at the compound. Aothor could scarcely imagine the uproar that would occur if they had actually brought her with them.

"My Lord Aeducan, might I bother you for a moment?" Ronus Dace approached him before he was even fully through the door.

Aothor turned to the deshyr. A man well respected by the rest of the Assembly, but a schemer like his fellows.

"Many thanks for your willingness to hear me out, my lord. I wish to speak with you of a matter most urgent."

Aothor nodded to the man. "I have a few moments to spare." He could at least listen to what the man had to say.

"There is a vote coming before the Assembly next week, and a word from you could go a long way towards helping our cause."

"And which cause would that be? They all come and go so quickly, I can barely keep up."

Lord Dace chuckled. "Such is the nature of the Assembly. The lot concerns the status of the so-called Surface Caste. Lost to the Stone, air-touched, and so forth. Centuries ago, narrow-minded men declared that any dwarf who left to live on the surface forfeited his caste, and his house if noble. That he was, in essence, no longer a dwarf. I only seek to remedy an injustice, to retie the bonds of anyone who can trace himself to one of the noble houses, wherever he may live. Please my lord, agree to speak for this noble cause."

Aothor considered the man. It was certainly a progressive view, and one that would bring new blood and more blades for Orzammar. But he couldn't place the man's interest in the topic. Lord Dace was known for being quite traditional. "Why so interested in this particular cause?"

"Those on the surface are out lifeline. They facilitate trade with the surface. They're honorable, and… um…" the man sighed. "Let's be honest. I don't care a whit for those who have wandered from the Stone. My wife, however, is a gem of a different color. She has a cousin, a useless sort, but she is quite fond of him. He joined a speculative venture to the surface, hoping to make his fortune, and went bust. Now he wishes to come home, but he cannot, for he has no house and would be casteless. For my wife's sake, I take up his cause. Will you lend me your voice?"

Ah. There it was. Aothor recalled hearing about that small scandal some months ago. He might even have bought in to Lord Dace's 'cause' if he didn't know for a fact that he and his wife despised each other.

There was another angle here. He just couldn't see it yet. "What is in this for me, should I speak on your behalf?"

Lord Dace smiled, stroking his beard. "I keep my ear to the stone, my prince. I hear many things, some of which could be of great help during your mission tomorrow. A little forewarning to help your forearming, if you know what I mean."

An interesting offer. "I sympathize with your cause. Orzammar loses too many good men and women to the surface every year."

"Thank you, my lord. When your father presents you to the noble houses, I will ask for your opinion on the matter. You merely need to say that you feel our surface brothers should be returned their noble rights. What could be more simple?" Lord Dace waved him off.

Aothor mingled, receiving congratulations and well-wishes from the crowd. He caught a scoff aimed at him and turned to see Lady Helmi eyeing him disapprovingly.

He inclined his head to the noblewoman. "Lady Helmi. Your daughter fought well in the Proving today."

Lady Helmi frowned, off guard from the praise to her daughter. "I… thank you, my lord. There are many among the Assembly who still disapprove of Adal's participation. She would be honored to hear such praise from you."

"And she is deserving of it. Is there something I can do for you, lady Helmi?"

Lady Helmi frowned, stern demeanor returning. "Your mother would melt the stone if she saw who you just spoke with."

"You disapprove of Lord Dace." A statement, not a question. There had long been tensions between Helmi and Dace.

"Only in that he is attempting to play you false. If you become his puppet, your first command will be marked by every major house turning their back on you."

Well, that much was obvious. Perhaps Lady Helmi had the pieces he was missing. "I'm listening."

"If you are to play in the games of the Assembly, make sure you know the motivations of the players. Last spring, a guild from the Merchant caste invested heavily in an expedition with a guild from the surface. Lord Dace backed the merchant guild, pouring a great deal of money into the venture. The expedition was a disaster."

Aothor chuckled, stroking his beard. Patronizing as she could be, Lady Helmi was nothing if not observant. "So, this is his play to cover his losses. Of course."

Lady Helmi nodded. "Clever child. Lord Dace lost a great deal of money and prestige. The surface guild has no way to repay the investment. But it does have several members who are descended from noble houses. Houses Helmi, Bemot… Aeducan."

"And if the surface dwellers are restored to their houses… we would be forced to pay their kin debts. Thank you, Lady Helmi, for helping me see the bigger picture."

"Of course, my lord. Let him think he has you. Smile and nod, and when he asks his question, tell him that the so-called surface caste are right where they belong."

Ah. And there was her angle. "I'll think on your words."

"Good. Your houses reputation hangs in the balance."

Lady Helmi turned into the crowed, and Aothor turned, glancing back at Lord Dace. He could not speak up for the surfacers rights—that would play into Dace's hands. Neither could he denounce the surface—that would fall in with Helmi's schemes. He could not afford to do either, yet he needed to do _something._

The solution was obvious.

"You return. Were my instructions unclear?" Lord Dace asked, turning to him as he approached.

Aothor crossed his arms, looming as to be imposing. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you where you stand."

Lord Dace scoffed. "And what would that do, besides get you cast into the Deep Roads or put down like a beast? Are you upset about something?"

"Your plan for the surfacers would have forced my house to pay surface debts. On your behalf. I may be just a little upset."

Lord Dace glanced quickly to the floor. His bluff had been called. "I suppose it could. I mean, well, it's the spirit of the law that's important, right? Our poor disenfranchised surface brothers… bah! Well played, your Highness. Welcome to Assembly politics. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Dace moved towards the door. Aothor caught him firmly by the arm. "Not so fast," he said.

Gorim spoke from over his shoulder. "You forget who you're speaking to. This is the guest of honor and child of the first house of Orzammar."

"For now. We shall see what the future holds. Trians grasp on the throne is in no way certain and much can happen before then. Now, let me be." Dace tried to pull away, but Aothor tightened his grip. So, someone had designs on Trian? Not surprising, actually.

"Your schemes are an insult to House Aeducan. I cannot let this go unanswered."

Gorim picked up on his intent right away and turned to the hall, pitching his voice to carry over the ambient conversation. "Lords, ladies! Lord Aothor Aeducan has challenged the honor of Lord Dace!"

The hall stilled as every dwarf turned towards them. Aothor could feel Dace trembling in his grip.

From the throne at the head of the hall, Aothor heard his father chuckle. "What's all this? My son is already baring his teeth?"

Several lords began to holler and cheer. "Fantastic! I thought tonight would be all talk and drink!"

Aothor grinned. There was nothing a deshyr loved more than a test of arms to prove honor. This would definitely re-establish his position.

Lord Harrowmont eyed him with concern. "You realize that it is Lord Dace's son Mandar, a formidable duelist, who will defend the honor of House Dace in the Proving?"

Of course. He'd faced Mandar in the ring before. A talented fighter, if a bit over confident in his abilities. An honorable man. One good to have on your side.

"I will face any man to defend the honor of my house," Aothor announced.

"Very well. There is to be a Proving, then."

Cheers rose up across the hall as the mass of lords began to push to the doors to head to the Proving Arena.

Guards escorted Aothor and Gorim ahead of the rest while others were dispatched to bring Mandar to the ring.

Gorim nudged his side. "What are you playing at here?"

"Helmi has an angle here. Her house has always been traditional, especially in matters of caste. Dace is trying to suck our house dry of every coin. Both have their own motives, and I can't play into either of them. The third option was to still call Dace out and settle the matter in combat." Aothor explained.

"But that means killing Mandar and making an enemy out of Dace."

Aothor gave him a look. "Who says I plan on killing Mandar?"

Gorim blinked. "But it's an Honor Proving."

"Doesn't mean I have to kill him. Only get him to submit. Killing is just… the most popular and expected outcome."

Gorim fit the pieces together and laughed. "You get into Helmi's good books by stonewalling Dace's schemes, and Dace owes you for sparing Mandar. Have I mentioned that you can be manipulative?"

"Hush. My reputation, Gorim."

"Sod your reputation."

It didn't take long for the seats in the arena to fill up, and in short enough order, Aothor found himself standing in the pit across from Mandar Dace. Mandar was in full plate, expression stony as he met his gaze from across the ring.

The Proving Master gave his address to the crowd. Aothor gave a small bow to Mandar, who did likewise to him. "Let's give them a show, eh Mandar?"

Mandar remained silent, tightening his grip on his maul.

"The Proving begins now!"

They paced forward at an equal speed, clashing in the center of the ring as Mandar brought his maul down in a heavy swing and Aothor pushed the blow aside with his shield. Mandar had significant reach with his two-handed weapon and was using it to his advantage, using long swings to keep Aothor from getting in close enough to land a hit. He was strong, too, and had the endurance to keep this up for as long as he needed.

Aothor kept a consistent pace with him, pulling in close enough to tempt Mandar to attack him and pulling back just out of reach. If he could get the warrior to overextend his attack, it would give him the opening he needed.

His chance came when Mandar tried to change his stance on his back swing and lost his perfect control over the heavy weapon, leaving his front exposed. Before he could recover, Aothor seized the opening and closed the gap between them, slamming Mandar in the face with his shield three times. As Mandar stumbled back Aothor followed up with a blow from his longsword, sinking the blade deep into Mandar's shoulder. The warrior cried out, but the sound was cut short by Aothor pringing the pommel of the blade to strike at the man's temple, knocking him out in a second.

The crowds erupted as Mandar crumpled to the ground.

"This Proving is at an end. Mandar Dace has been found wanting by the ancestors and House Dace is guilty of dishonoring House Aeducan," announced the Proving Master.

Lord Dace buried his face in his hands. "This is my fault. My son has died defending my honor…"

"Not quite," said Aothor. He inspected Mandar. He was still breathing, and as long as he got immediate care, he would continue to do so. "Mandar Dace fought honorably for his House. I would not have Orzammar loose such a man today." He waved the medics into the ring and directed them to Mandar before leaving the pit himself.

Gorim and the rest of his personal guard met him outside the arena and escorted him back to the palace, fending off the nobles who attempted to shower him in congratulations and praise.

Two Proving victories in one day—not bad, if he had to say so himself.

The party back in the palace was livelier in the aftermath of the bout. Lord Meino clapped him on the back and offered his own congratulations and thoughts on the fight.

"When he mistimed that back swing, I knew he was going down," He said, pouring Aothor a full goblet of wine.

Lord Bemot sighed, singing from his own cup. "Poor bastard. Still, couldn't wish it on a nicer house. Merciful of you to let him live, my lord. Ronus won't forget your generosity."

"Well put! Our new commander taught House Dace a serious lesson—"

All conversation died as King Endrin's voice carried over the hall, commanding attention. "The hour is late. These deshyrs have waited patiently, as have the Grey Wardens." The king turned to him, and Aothor instinctively straightened his posture under his father's gaze. "Are you ready to be presented to the heads of the noble houses?"

"Of course, Father."

"So dutiful…" Endrin smiled fondly, "Very well, let us begin. Lords, ladies. Grant me a moment of your time. We are here today so I may present to you my second eldest child. Blessed by the stone and born of the blood that ran in the veins of Paragon Aeducan. Who would pose a question to the prospective commander? Who seeks to know the prospect better?"

Silence met his call. Aothor looked over the crowd. His bout with Mandar had been both a question and an answer in the eyes of the nobility.

"No? Very well. The ritual is complete. I give you Orzammar's next commander, Aothor Aeducan!" Cheers and applause rose up as the gathered lords toasted in his honor. "Tomorrow, Commander Aothor will lead part of a mission to strike a great blow to the darkspawn. Not only does this recover access to some of our most valuable mines, but it also allows our honored guests, the Grey Wardens, to strike far into the Deep Roads."

Duncan bowed to the king. "Thank you, King Endrin. While the darkspawn seem to withdraw, it is only because they are massing on the surface. This could mean a Blight, and my men and I will discover the truth."

And uncomfortable hush fell over the dwarves at Duncan's words. Aothor watched as the crowd collectively shuddered and glanced towards his father for an indication of how to react.

Endrin simply gave a graceful nod to the Warden Commander. "We are honored to have you with us, my friend. Now everyone, feast, drink, and celebrate. For the morning brings battle!" The king raised his cup and the lords cheered as one, all too happy to resume the party. Endrin put a hand on Aothor's shoulder and pitched his voice so only he could hear. "As for you, my new commander, find your brother Trian and send him to me."

Aothor nodded. "Of course, Father."

"Walk well, Commander."

The noise of the party faded away as Aothor took the halls to Trians chambers, Gorim ever at his heels.

The crown prince gave him a contempt-laden once over as he entered the room. "So, you're a commander now. In name, at least," he huffed, "Shouldn't you be attending our king father?"

"I noticed neither of you were at the feast," Aothor remarked.

"The world does not start and stop with your meager achievements. Not even tonight. Now, do you have some purpose in bothering us?"

Many things in this world were ever changing. Trian being an ass was not one of them. "Father wishes to speak with you."

Trian visibly puffed up with pride. "Of course he does. We must discuss strategy before tomorrow's battle. Bhelen, stay here and stroke the new commander's conceit if you life, but then get to bed."

Bhelen let out a long sigh as Trian left the room. "All day I've put up with that. He can really grate on the nerves."

"You bear it well, at least," Aothor gave his brother what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I don't know if I could, especially since it's sort of his right to be an ass."

"Is it also his right to secure his own power at the expense of everyone around him?"

Aothor frowned. Bhelen wasn't even joking, he was saying something serious. "Is this something I want to hear?"

"Probably not, but you need to all the same," Bhelen said, dropping his voice low and quiet even though the three of them were completely alone. "Trian has begun to move against you. I never thought his much-proclaimed honor would allow him to act on his jealousy. Aothor, Trian is going to kill you."

Aothor noticed Gorim shift at his side, tensing at a possible threat. "How do you know about this?"

"I overheard him giving orders to some of his men, and I was shocked. Then it began to make sense. Trian's decided you're a threat to his taking the throne. Maybe he's even right."

"Don't you start with that, too," groaned Aothor.

"He fears what you are becoming, in the eyes of the people and the Assembly. Trian's the named heir, but only the Assembly can proclaim a king. It would be unusual for the Assembly to ignore the king's choice, but it does happen."

"The founder of House Bemot became a Paragon and king in one move from the Assembly, and he was a commoner," added Gorim. Aothor glared at his second. That didn't help.

"That was an extraordinary case. But at least a half-dozen times, the Assembly named a lesser family member—or even someone from another house—as king. Usually it's the popular younger brother of an undesirable prince."

"So you believe Trian thinks the Assembly would prefer me?" So far none of this confirmed anything. Even Bhelen overhearing orders could be a misunderstanding of some kind.

"Look at it from his perspective. You're more personable than he's ever been. You defeated the heir to House Dace, one of the most powerful houses in Orzammar, because his father dared to challenge your houses honor. You've won several Provings and have high regard among most of the Warrior Caste houses. If you win glory against the darkspawn tomorrow, it will only strengthen the case for you as the next king. Trian fears Father will replace him on the spot. If not, the Assembly will surely turn against him when Father dies. And you know his pride won't allow him to simply stand aside."

All valid points, certainly. But Bhelen was giving him ifs and could-bes. That wouldn't be enough to justify turning against Trian. Aothor gave his younger brother a considering eye.

"And what's your angle in all this?"

Bhelen chuckled. "It seems Trian has shown that brothers can't always be trusted. I am next in line. If Trian succeeds in his plot against you, how long do you think I'll live?"

Aothor glanced at his second. "What do you think of all this?"

"Permission to speak freely?"

"Always."

"Trian would be a terrible king, but no one wants to say it. He has just enough backing in the Assembly to make it ugly when your father dies, but not enough to become king," said Gorim, "Killing him now makes your house stronger now and saves a great deal of bloodshed later.

Aothor scowled. Gorim had a point. Bhelen had several points. Some of them were on his head. Regardless, he couldn't do anything about it. Not yet.

"For now we'll wait. See what Trian chooses to do."

Bhelen sighed. "Very well. I'll keep my eyes open," he said turning for the door. "I don't want to lose the brother I actually like."

"I appreciate your concern, and the warning."

"I'm taking your place as Father's second, so I'll be at hand tomorrow. For now, we should get some sleep."

Gorim turned to him once Bhelen was gone from the room. "What do you think?"

"Trian's not a schemer. He's stubborn as the Stone, but just as dense. If he's plotting something it won't be subtle. Our best bet is to keep a warry eye on him and wait for him to make a mistake." Aothor pulled at his beard in irritation. He wasn't going to act against Trian, not without any other options. At the bottom of the line they were still brothers, and if you couldn't trust family, who could you trust? Besides, he didn't even know if he would want to be king anyways. The throne had never been a realistic consideration before.

"Let's go. You don't want to keep those lovely ladies waiting."

—

The sensation of darkspawn crawling at the edges of his senses, however distant they were, set Duncan and his fellow wardens on edge. What was worrying was not the number that they felt, but rather the number that they _didn't_ sense. This far into the Deep Roads there should be more, and the absence did not bode well.

Lord Harrowmont gave his address to the assembled troops. "Trian and his men will clear the way for the Grey Wardens to descend into the easternmost caverns. Those are the caverns still infested with the worst of the darkspawn. We cannot risk our own troops in there."

"Understood, Lord Harrowmont. We can sense the darkspawn and avoid them once the way is open," Duncan said.

King Endrin gave the Warden party a salute as he sent them off. "May the Paragons favor you, and the Stone catch you if you fall. Come, men, glory awaits!"

As the squads divided onto their respective routes, Duncan fell in step with their dwarven recruit. "You must be extra cautious when engaging darkspawn in melee combat," he said, "Their blood is toxic. If any of it gets into your system, you will be tainted by the blight." Though the Joining would cure that taint in a sense, it would be several weeks until the ritual would be performed in Ostagar, and the corruption was painful and could take a life in as little as a few days.

_"__Aye, I hear you. I've heard all kinds of nasty things about the 'spawn. Gotta say that I'm not exactly eager to see one up close and personal."_

Duncan chuckled. "They are hardly pleasant creatures, I'll admit that. But this is the life of a Grey Warden; I did warn you that this was no life of comfort."

_"__Neither was the one I came from," _she signed, shrugging her shoulders absently. _"I haven't seen much of you since you recruited me. Deshyrs been keeping you busy?"_

"Some, though I spent most of my hours in research. When I was not discussing strike tactics with the king, I was researching in the Shaperate. While I was in the Circle library, I found mention of an old Grey Warden outpost built during the Exalted Age, not far from the war camps at Ostagar. I found more detailed maps and information in the Shaperate highlighting several things that may be of use to us," said Duncan. "But that is a matter for another time. For now, we should focus on the mission at hand. I trust you made use of the week to prepare?"

Liri looked up at him, eyes alight as she adjusted the large pack strapped to her back. _"Prepped and ready. Me an' magic boy whipped up a whole bag of tricks to throw at the baddies. Can't wait to try them out."_

Duncan glanced back at the mage, who walked at the very back of the Warden squad. He had a thousand-yard stare on, eyes far away as they walked. Duncan shared a glance with Liri—she noticed it as well.

"Are you nervous?" Duncan asked Edmund. Edmund snapped back into focus, blinking at the two of them absently.

"Yeah. Plenty nervous. And…" Edmund trailed off, holding out a hand with his palm up. "Something feels weird down here. Like the Fade is farther away." His hand sparked and sputtered for a moment before a small flame like a candle lit in his palm.

Duncan frowned. "Will this affect your ability to cast?"

"I don't think so. I think I felt it since we've been in Orzammar, but it's more pronounced down here. I'll adjust in a moment, but it feels… weird." Edmund clenched his hand into a fist and the small flame puffed and died.

_"__As long as you're roasting the baddies and not us." _Liri shrugged.

The other Wardens all drew their weapons. Duncan's hands fell to his blades without a single thought.

"Prepare yourselves—darkspawn are approaching."

—

Aothor prodded a genlock corpse, turning the deceased creature onto it's side and exposing fresh stab wounds.

The scout huffed, doing a similar check on a hurlock. "Looks like someone beat us here. And these are still fresh—whoever did this is likely still here."

Aothor frowned. "They would need to have an Aeducan signet ring to get in."

"It could have been stolen, recently or generations back," suggested Frandlin.

"Or an ambitious cousin out for his own glory."

Aothor pulled on the end of his beard. This was supposed to be a simple task. Get in, get the shield, get out. Why did everything have to get so complicated? And worst of all, he couldn't get Bhelen's warnings about Trian out of his head. "We'll see soon enough."

"Understood. "Let's move, men."

Now in addition to being on high alert for darkspawn and deepstalkers, they also had a third party involved with unknown intent. But he was probably safe in assuming that they were no more friendly than the genlocks.

They were approaching the location now, his Stone sense indicating that the tight tunnel opened up to a larger cavern ahead. Rounding the corner, he saw that it wasn't empty, either.

A company of unfamiliar armed dwarves awaited them. The one who was obviously the leader of said group chucked at their approach. "So glad you could finally join us. We feared you'd gotten eaten by darkspawn. Turns out the shield isn't as easy to retrieve as I was lead to believe. I bet you know where it is, though. So maybe you tell me where it is, and I won't mutilate your body so badly that your father doesn't recognize you."

"Who are you? How did you get in here?"

"I'm your better, that's who. And as to how I got in, that's a question you'll have to ask the Stone after I butcher you. Now, where's the shield?"

Aothor shared a glance with Gorim. Mercenaries, likely. Paid a lot of gold by someone powerful to kill them and swipe the shield. But who provided the gold? Aothor surveyed the men before them—fifteen men, well armored and held themselves with training. Only a few houses had the kind of spare gold to doll out on an excessive group like this. One of them was Aeducan. Bhelen's warnings grew louder in his subconscious.

"You're an idiot, and now you're going to die," said Aothor. The scout, he noticed, had been using the interaction as an opportunity to slip along the edges of the cavern… towards a ballista positioned on the far wall.

"Just kill em, boys. We'll find the shield on our own."

Aothor and Gorim charged forwards in a practiced motion, shields raised and weapons ready. Fandlin followed at just a pace behind, going wide to take out an archer aiming their way. The mercenary leader and three others ganged up on the prince and his second. For all their bluster and fancy armor, their teamwork and coordination wasn't even that good. They didn't check each other's blind spots, bumped into each other with mistimed motions and poor synergy. Aothor and Gorim stood back to back, fending off the men who encircled them.

It didn't take the scout long to take down the mercenaries manning the ballista and turn it against the enemies forces. One by one they fell, with the scout and Frandlin taking out the archers and the mercenaries own poor teamwork doing them in before Aothor and Gorim's blades.

Aothor surveyed the aftermath of the encounter. He and Gorim had only suffered superficial injuries, Frandlin's shoulder had been grazed by and arrow, and the scout was untouched. Not bad, overall.

"Search their bodies. If there's any evidence about who set this up, I want to know about it."

"Right away, sir."

They set to work, rummaging through pouches and satchels. Aothor found a familiar ring of silver among the leader's possessions.

"Is that an Aeducan signet ring? I guess that explains how they got here," said Gorim.

"Could be Trian's," said Aothor, softly so as to not be heard by the others. He hated the words even as he spoke them.

"Trian's? That means…"

"I don't know. But I don't like what this could be." Trian wasn't a schemer. This didn't fit with what he knew of his sibling. But all the evidence was lining up.

"I would be a major victory to get the shield first. But he showed his hand and failed. You said that if he was planning something he'd blunder. This is it. And the first way we can hurt him is to find the shield for ourselves."

"Sod it." Aothor turned and kicked a loose stone, sending it flying into the shadows of the cavern. "Alright, form up boys!" he called to the others, "Let's get this over with."

—

He thought he was mentally prepared for darkspawn. He thought he knew what they looked like, he thought he knew what they sounded like. He thought he was prepared.

He was not, in fact, prepared.

Outside of their humanoid shape, there was nothing recognizable about them. Their skin looked like some bizarre mix of leather and scales. They didn't have any lips, so there was nothing to hide the horror that was the mouth full of bladed teeth. Worst was their eyes. Milky white and void of anything, empty and unblinking.

And the smell. There were no words for the smell. He was grateful he didn't have to get close to one to kill one, they stank badly enough from a distance. Poor Liri tossed her lunch immediately following their first encounter with a pack of genlocks. He felt particularly guilty—darkspawn smelled bad on their own, but set on fire? That was a whole new level of nasty.

For his part, he focused on defensive magic. He didn't yet trust himself to not set his friends on fire. That didn't mean that his barriers still didn't occasionally combust—because they did—but the explosions they created were actually pretty effective against the darkspawn. He could even pretend to the others that it was intentional.

Casting still felt strange. Before, it was like swimming. Now, it was still like swimming, but you were going against the current instead of with it. It could have something to do with the way the dwarves don't dream and they came from the Stone. Maybe the Stone was a natural magic suppressant.

Between the encounters with darkspawn was an inordinate amount of walking in silence. Having Liri in the party was particularly helpful, as her Stone Sense gave her a mental layout of the immediate area. That, combined with their maps and the Warden's ability to sense darkspawn, they made pretty good time and were able to avoid the larger groups of darkspawn.

One thing bothered him, however. He didn't even know where they were supposed to be going. Edmund pulled one of the Wardens—Sam, he thought—to the side while the group took a short rest.

"Is there any chance you can tell me what exactly we're doing down here? I get that we're scouting, but for what?"

"Evidence of a Blight," Sam answered evenly, adjusting his bracers.

Edmund gave him a flat look. The Wardens would already know it was a real Blight. They would be hearing the Archdemon. "And that evidence would be…?"

Sam sighed. "Largely it comes down to darkspawn activity. They've already pulled back in bulk from the gates of Orzammar and have been appearing in larger numbers on the surface, but that's not enough to convince the likes of King Cailan or King Endrin. And we need both to agree that it's a Blight before we can even open negotiations for Orzammar's military support."

"Isn't Orzammar obliged to help in times of Blight?"

Sam shrugged. "Supposedly, but there's nothing to enforce that. Duncan thinks he's found out about some old treaties lost in the Wilds that could compel certain groups to aid us, but it sounds like a longshot to me."

So, that's why there weren't any other forces at Ostagar. The treaties hadn't been reclaimed yet, so there was nothing to compel the dwarves or mages for aid.

"Alright, makes sense, I guess. But what other evidence do we need?"

"One would be breeding grounds and how active they are. If it's a Blight, the darkspawn are going to try and inflate their numbers as much as possible," said Sam. Edmund tried very, very hard not to think about how disgusting a broodmother would be in real life. "Another thing to check are deep roads exits and if they have darkspawn encampments, and also see if there are active darkspawn forges in the area. If we can find enough to verify any of this, we can start talking about alliances."

"How long do you think it will take to find all that evidence?"

"If we're lucky, we'll be seeing sunlight again in a week's time."

Edmund sighed. One week of tunnels. If it was already this bad, he didn't know how he was going to survive the Deep Roads quest later in the game.

—

Aothor knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into the cavern. The ring of dead dwarves in the center were hardly subtle, after all.

Aothor took one step, then two, and before he knew it he was running. He skidded to a halt standing over the body of his older brother.

Gorim, as always, was just a pace behind him. "By the Stone, it's Trian!" Aothor knelt by Trian's corpse.

"It must have been a darkspawn attack!" Frandlin cried out, turning in place in an effort to see if there were any laying in ambush.

The scout shook his head. "This doesn't look like darkspawn," He said, examining one of Trian's men. "No bites, no scratches, no mutilation…"

Aothor stared into Trian's vacant eyes. One by one, pieces began to fall into place. He barked out a laugh, but it was hollow of any emotion. He held his head with his hand, realizing the corner he was in. "Bhelen outplayed me. He played his game and I just didn't see it."

Gorim gave him a confused look. "What?"

"Someone's coming!" the scout called.

Aothor looked up from his place at Trian's side as Lord Harrowmont, his father, and a host of other dwarves entered the chamber… lead by Bhelen. Sod.

"Hurry Father! Before it's too…"

The assembled dwarves gasped in unison as they took in the sight of Aothor knealing over Trians body. King Endrin pushed past the others towards his two sons.

"By all the ancestors, what has happened here?" Endrin cried out, falling at Trian's side.

"It seems we weren't fast enough. Bhelen was right."

Aothor met Bhelen's gaze from across the chamber. In that moment, he couldn't even bring himself to hate him. His gaze was pulled back to his father, who had tears welling into his eyes.

"My son… tell me this isn't what it looks like."

It looked like one of his sons had turned against the others. Which was exactly what had happened. It just wasn't him.

"Would you even believe me?" He asked his father. Bhelen had stacked the deck too well. He wasn't coming out of this whole, no matter what he said.

"My lord is innocent!" Gorim protested.

"Ser Gorim, your loyalty makes you a useless witness," said Lord Harrowmont. "It falls to the others to tell the story."

Aothor did and said nothing as the scout and Frandlin lied to Harrowmont. They were in Bhelen's pocket, because of course they were. Everything had already been set up. He wondered how they had already arranged to execute him.

"Do you have anything else to say, my son?"

Aothor looked up at his father. This was his last chance. Endrin was the only one who might hear him. "Can you not see that this is all a set up?"

"I want to believe that, I really do." And his father turned away. "Bind him. He will be tried before the Assembly. To Orzammar!"


	7. A Burning Castle (Part 1)

He never thought he'd be bound with iron. He never thought he'd sit behind bars. Yet, there he was, sitting in a dank city cell in chains. It didn't feel real. He was almost sure that any minute now Trian would come stomping in a ridicule him for being clueless and self-absorbed, and then he and Bhelen would share a knowing eye roll behind his back.

Now he wondered how much of his relationship with his younger brother was a lie.

Did Bhelen really hate him so much? How long had be been planning this? There had to have been a way to avoid this.

Even though it felt like an age that he sat in that cell, it couldn't have been more than a day that had passed before Gorim came to see him. His second was in a similar state as he was—stripped of all armor and weapons and dressed in peasants' clothes, with the grime and gore of the Deep Roads still clinging to his person.

"Just so you know, if you make any jokes about my reputation, I'll sodding hit you."

The two of them shared a half-hearted laugh.

"Wouldn't dream of it, my lord. I… I would have come sooner, had they allowed it. How are you?"

Grieving. Heartbroken. Furious.

Tired.

"I'm fine. Why hasn't the Assembly called for me yet?

Gorim let out a slow breath "The Assembly isn't going to call for you. Bhelen has taken Trian's place in the Assembly. He introduced a motion to condemn you immediately, and it easily passed. He… had fully half of the Assembly ready to vote on something completely against tradition and justice! He must have been making deals and alliances for months, if not years."

Aothor gave a dry chuckle. "I never though Bhelen would be capable of something like this. I underestimated him, and look where that's gotten me. I hate him—Stone, do I hate him—but he has a mastery of this game you have to respect."

"He's certainly cleverer than either of us thought. Some of the lords, especially Harrowmont, are suspicious of Bhelen's instant rise to power. They are rallying, but far too slowly. The Assembly has already sentenced both of us."

Aothor held his head in his hands, wracking his brain for a loophole, some clever solution. "There has to be a way to fight this."

"If there is one, I can't imagine what it is. My knighthood will be stripped, my name torn from my family records… but I will be able to attempt some sort of life on the surface."

Aothor couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. Gorim didn't deserve to feel the political backlash of this, but as his second, there was no being shielded from it. At least he would live.

"Lord Harrowmont moved for a similar exile for you, but Bhelen's supporters overwhelmed him. You are to be sealed in the Deep Roads to fight darkspawn until you are overwhelmed and killed."

Or until he got lost and starved. Still, it was a warrior's death. He could at least be grateful for that.

"What has my father said about all this?"

Gorim shifted. Whatever the news was, it wasn't good. "Lord Harrowmont says the king has taken ill. He couldn't bear losing two of his children at once." Aothor pressed his head against the bars. His father's health was failing. Now it was even worse. Even if he didn't kill Trian, he still fell for Bhelen's plot. This was still partly his fault. "Lord Harrowmont gave me access to see you so I could tell you this: Duncan and the Grey Wardens are still in the Deep Roads, in tunnels that connect to those you are to be left in. If you survive long enough to find Duncan, you may be able to escape with them."

"The Grey Wardens seemed to be good men, for humans." And he supposed one casteless now, too.

"True. They don't care about a person's past. They recruit for daring, intelligence, and martial power—you know this, else you wouldn't have suggested that casteless girl to them. If you can find them, I'm sure you could join them and escape the Deep Roads. I… I begged to go with you, to fight at your side, but Bhelen's pet nobles wouldn't hear of it."

Aothor's heart broke as he looked at the man who had truly been his brother when all others had betrayed him. "If you were able to come, I would have gladly had you."

"I would give up all the safety in the world to go down this dark path with you. But our time is up. May the Paragons guide your sword and the Stone hold you up."

"I'll find you Gorim. Somehow. We're not done yet, brother."

Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Aothor thought for a moment that he saw a tear fall down Gorim's cheek and he turned and left the dungeon. "I will always be your man, my Lord Aeducan. Atrast nal tunsha."

A company of guards came, and one unlocked the cell door. "They are ready for you my Lo—erm, prisoner." The guard stammered. Aothor took a better look at him and the other guards. All Warrior Caste. Men he knew fairly well. Aothor realized his fatal flaw—he'd rallied the sword castes to his back, but they weren't the ones who made the votes in the Assembly.

Consequence is the cruelest teacher.

Pulled by chains, they lead him through the commons to the Deep Roads entrance. The hour was late and most businesses had closed for the day, and the streets were mercifully vacant. Still, this was the grandest walk of shame of them all.

The guards at the gate only gave grim nods before allowing access. He walked with his escort through the branching tunnels to one of the many secondary seals that defended Orzammar's location. This one in particular was used for exiling prisoners almost to an exclusion.

Lord Harrowmont awaited them before the doors.

"Here is the prisoner, Lord Harrowmont."

"Having been found guilty of fratricide by the Assembly of Orzammar, you are hereby sentenced to exile and death. Your name is, from this point forward, stripped from the records. You are no longer a person, nor a memory. You are to be cast into the Deep Roads with only sword and shield, there to redeem your life by fighting the enemies of Orzammar until your death," said Harrowmont. Each word was a blow cementing the gravity of this reality. There was no going back. Just twenty four hours ago he'd been celebrating with his family and with his city. Now he had neither of those things. "Do you have anything to say before your sentence is carried out?"

Bhelen wouldn't stop with him. He would steamroll anyone who got in his way. "Watch Bhelen. He will seek your destruction as surely as he has wrought my own." He couldn't keep the bite out of his words.

"I understand your anger. You should have been allowed to defend yourself before the Assembly. Had I the power to stop this, I would have. Just… look me in the eye and tell me you didn't do this. For your father's sake."

"I didn't kill Trian." He hadn't killed Train. But for a few moments in those tunnels, a few dark and terrible moments, he'd thought about it. Was he really that different from Bhelen himself?

"I believe you. That means Bhelen planned this from the start. Believe me, I will spend the rest of my days ensuring Bhelen does not profit from his deeds. Your father asked me to give you these. The sword and shield are of fine dwarven make. Strike a blow at our enemies."

Aothor turned the pieces over in his hand. They weren't the quality he was accustomed to, but overall they were far better than he'd expected to receive. One last gesture from his father. "How is my father?" he asked, strapping the shield to his arm.

"He is old and this tragedy hit him hard. He will rest better now, however, knowing the truth."

"Make sure he knows I never wavered. That I went to a warrior's death with honor."

Harrowmont nodded. "I will. Open the doors and let the condemned walk through." The chamber echoed with the sound of steel scraping against stone as the doors swung open to the tunnel ahead. "May the Stone accept you when you fall."

The chains were lifted from his wrists and Aothor stared into the dark roads ahead. The Wardens had more than a day's head start, and their mastery of the Roads was only matched by the Legion of the Dead. Though they were in this region, he was more likely to stumble over a darkspawn forge than a small troupe of Wardens.

But he couldn't let it end like this. He would not die alone and shamed in the depths.

Aothor lifted his sword and stepped into the darkness.

—

The blow caught him full in the chest and the next thing he knew he was on his ass in the dirt. His brother offered him a hand to stand, and he begrudgingly accepted it, whipping the dirt off of himself.

Fergus laughed. "You know, if you would stop overextending yourself, you might even spend as much time on your feet as you do on the ground."

"Oh, shut up. I don't see why I need to bother with hand-to-hand combat, anyways." Peter's fingers itched for his great-axe. Fergus wouldn't be so smug if they were sparring fully armed.

"It's a useful skill, and it could save your life someday. There will be times in your life when you can't walk around fully armed all day, you know," Fergus chided.

"Yes, but that's what Lady's for," said Peter, pointing to his faithful mabari who was napping under a tree in the courtyard. At the sound of her name she perked up, ears flicking in their direction.

Fergus rolled his eyes. "Lady won't always be there either. What if an assassin tries to kill you in the middle of a fancy party, or maybe a bit more realistically, you get into a bar fight? I want you to be able to win."

Oh. So that's what this was about. "I… didn't think you'd heard about that."

"You didn't think that I would hear that my rascal of a brother snuck down to the pub, got into a barfight with a couple of brutes, and had his ass readily handed to him?" Fergus gave him an incredulous look. "You can get into fights all you want. I just think, as a Cousland, you should be able to win those fights. Now square back up, we're running that block until you can get it."

Peter took his position, cursing under his breath while doing so. "In my defense, I was completely smashed. I could have fought a dead man and lost."

Fergus threw a punch at him. Peter raised his arm to block it, only managing to just deflect the blow. "And a dead man could have blocked that better than you too. Again."

It was another half our and a dozen more falls to the ground before Fergus decided Peter had a good enough grasp of the move. And in true brotherly form, at some point the sparring turned into the two of them wrestling like a pair of children.

Peter nearly had his older brother successfully pinned when a familiar Antivan voice caused both men to still.

"What in the Maker's name are you two doing?" Oriana asked, trying very hard to look disapproving but not altogether succeeding. At her side, as always, was little Oren.

"Oren!" Fergus cried out, "Oren, help, I'm under attack!"

"I'll save you, Father!"

Peter looked at Fergus in disbelief, and Fergus only gave him a smug grin in reply. Involving Oren was hardly fair—the kid was everyone's weakness. Peter gave Fergus a look that promised revenge as he allowed the six-year-old to tackle him off of his father.

Fortunately, he had an ally of his own he could call on.

As Oren began playfully pulling on Peter's hair, Peter let out a shrill whistle. From his peripheral, he could see a blur of snowy white fur as Lady ran in their direction. Fergus, who was just beginning to sit up, found himself pinned by near two hundred pounds of mabari and assaulted by slobbery kisses.

Over Oren's delighted giggles and Fergus's cries of disgust, Peter distinctly heard Oriana mutter something about being surrounded by children.

"Fine, fine! It's a draw! Stand down!" called Fergus, trying in vain to remove Lady from his person.

Peter easily lifted little Oren off of him and then snapped his fingers, calling Lady off and setting his brother free. She then turned to Oren and began to lick the dirt off his cheeks, much to the boys immense delight.

"Mother! When can I have my own mabari?" Oren asked, scratching Lady's ears. Oriana frowned—the Antivan woman still wasn't sold on the concept of a wardog as a pet for her son. Peter was sure Fergus would talk her around eventually.

"Perhaps when your taller than one," she said noncommittally.

Oren groaned. "But that will take _forever."_

"Oh, not so long I'm sure," said Fergus, whipping his face off on his sleeve. Peter had to agree. It seemed like only yesterday that Oren was lying in a crib unable to lift his own head, and here he was now, demanding to learn how to ride a horse and playing swordfight with wooden sticks.

Fergus stood and moved to embrace his wife, but she held him off with a hand. "No kisses for you until you've bathed the drool and dirt off of you. That goes for you too, Oren."

"Kisses are gross anyways," said Oren.

"Are they now?" Fergus chucked, then swooped in and kissed his wife's cheek despite her chiding. Oren made a retching sound, and Peter joined him in pretending to be sick. Oriana rolled her eyes fondly before offering her husband a handkerchief so he could wipe off his face. "So what has the two of you coming out to the courtyard at a time like this? I thought you were going to be working with Mother up until supper and Oren was to be in lessons."

"Aldous thought Oren could do well to stretch his legs a bit, he's been fidgeting all day. And your father actually asked me to collect the two of you; something urgent has come up."

"We'd better get cleaned up then," said Peter. He got to his feet and called Lady to his side, returning to the castle interior.

After putting on a fresh change of clothes he found his parents in the families private common room. Fergus and Oriana followed just a minute after him. Oren, it seemed, had returned to his lesson. Which was probably a good thing, because judging by his parents solemn expressions, this conversation was one the kid didn't need to hear.

"Thank you for coming so quickly. I would not have called this family meeting so suddenly if it weren't important."

"It's no trouble, Father." Peter said, seating himself on the couch opposite his mother, who clutched a letter in her hands.

"I take you've all heard about the darkspawn raids to the south?"

"Of course. The king's already taken a force to put them down," said Fergus.

"Is that what this is about? I thought all news said they were experiencing victory. Has that changed?" Peter eyed the letter his mother held more closely. It bore a wax seal on it—the royal seal.

"No, actually. All news continues to bear well for the king and his forces," said Mother. "He has, however, sent summons commanding additional forces to come south. Our forces, specifically."

Peter leaned forwards intently. "How soon do we march?"

"As the situation isn't particularly dire, we can take this week to prepare our men and supplies and then Fergus and I will march south with them before the end of next," said Father, giving Peter a particularly meaningful look.

"I want to come. I can help."

"We know that darling. But you must think practically," said Mother. "Highever will still need managing, and that's just as important as riding off to battle."

"Doesn't feel like it." Was he aware that he was pouting? Yes. As a youngest child it was his Maker-given right. Though he'd long learned it wouldn't get him anywhere anymore.

"Oh, cheer up Pup," Fergus said, patting him on the shoulder, "You're much better at administrative work than Father or me, anyways. Could you imagine if I was left in charge? Highever would probably burn to the ground."

"I'm sure it wouldn't be that bad, Fergus," chuckled Father. "Besides, should the King need to call for naval support, you and mother will need to be at hand with the armada. The battle is currently land-locked, but that could always change."

"Oh, this is truly awful. And so close to winter, too!" exclaimed Oriana, taking Fergus's hand in her own.

Fergus took the summons from mother and looked them over. "Winter's a few months off, yet. If the fighting continues to go as well as it has, it likely won't be but a handful of weeks before we can put the darkspawn down. We might even be able to make it home before the first snowfall."

"That's the hope," said Mother. "This next week will be busy for all of us. Fergus, you and your father will speak with the captains and see about organizing and dividing our troops. Oriana, I would like for you to work with the servants of the household and see if there are any volunteers to attend to our troops once they arrive at the camp. I'll contact the Howes—they're so close, perhaps our men could travel jointly." Despite his disappointment at being left home, Peter couldn't help but smile as his mother transitioned from regal teyrna to strategic raider. If nothing else, they could all trust she knew what she was doing. "Pup, I'd like you to speak with the local smiths and merchants and establish suppliers for the forces. Any questions, anyone?"

"Yes—have you also planned out the exact battle strategy to defeat the darkspawn?" Peter asked, laughing under his breath. His family joined him in chuckling as Mother rolled her eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous, Pup. Bryce, do you have anything else?"

"Remember, the people will take their cue from us. If we maintain a calm composure in the face of uncertainty, so shall they. Maker willing, we'll come through this whole."

—

Aothor waited, back pressed to the wall of the tunnel, for the darkspawn to round the corner. He caught the first genlock by surprise, stunning it with a strike from his shield before decapitating it. The second genlock didn't give him a moment to breathe, releasing rapid shots from it's short bow. One pierced his shield, and the other he only barely managed to avoid.

He was preoccupied with striking the second genlock down and didn't notice the third one until it lept upon him from the shadows, double daggers drawn and aimed for his neck.

He tumbled to the ground, genlock on top of him, wrestling the blades inches from his body. It shrieked, gnashing at him with it's disgusting maw. Drawing from the depths of his willpower he forced them to roll over and turned the genlock's grip and pierced it's chest with it's own jagged weapons.

Aothor straightened, breathing heavy in the now silent tunnels. He picked up the sword which had fallen from his hand, adjusted the shield on his arm, and kept moving.

Thanks to his Stone Sense he knew that it had been six days since his exile. Five days of darkness, tunnels, and darkspawn. Aothor considered himself experienced when navigating the Deep Roads—he'd been part of expeditions since he was old enough for his father to allow it and even lead plenty on his own.

But that was different. Back then he had a company of seasoned warriors at his back, maps, objectives, a family that supported him, and Gorim at his side.

Now he had nothing and no one.

The armor he wore now was not crafted of quality by the best smiths of Orzammar, but rather patchwork chainmail peeled off a rotting half-eaten corpse of a condemned dwarf.

The dehydration was setting into his system now, and the knot in his belly tightened continually. He'd found no water source that wasn't Blighted beyond hope, and doing so was becoming almost a more pressing objective than finding the Wardens.

The only trace of the Wardens had been signs of a camp he discovered on the second day. Since then, nothing. The only source of hope that it had been a relatively straight shot with few branching paths, so as long as he did not stop, he had at least a chance of stumbling across them.

His muscles ached and his mind cried out for release, but if he stopped for more than a few hours at a time he ran the risk of never catching up to them.

The only thing that kept him putting one foot before the other was spite—Bhelen expected him to face his end in the Deeps. But just as Aothor had underestimated his younger brother, so too had Bhelen underestimated him.

If Bhelen wanted to ensure he died, he would have been smarter to cut Aothor's head off in an execution.

This exile would not be his end.

Aothor stilled. The tunnels were no longer completely silent. A quiet rumble echoed from further ahead. He trained his ears, trying to discern what it was. Then, the floor beneath him shook slightly as a dull explosion sounded in the distance.

Hope burned inside him as he took off running.

—

The plan was simple, but it all went to shit really fast. That seemed to be the theme of her life.

Sam and Edmund were going to stay up on the ridge while she, Farrien, Oliver, and Duncan got in close with the darkspawn to draw them out of their camp defenses and towards the tunnel choke point so the mage and archer could pick them off from the ledge. Nothing fancy. And still they fucked up.

While Edmund was the one light the fuse, in hindsight she could see she was the one who handed him the bomb. Almost literally, in fact. Though, all of them really should have been paying better attention. She and the two melee Wardens successfully drew the majority of the genlocks towards the tightest point of the tunnel, exactly where they wanted them. Edmund and Sam were lining up their shots.

Hoping to speed the process along, she stepped ahead of the others and took one of her flaming pitch grenades and threw it into the oncoming monsters. And Edmund, true to his form, launched a fireball to ignite the grease.

It was at this point she realized they'd all somehow failed to notice the fain scent of rotting eggs in the tunnel, likely because the acidic reek of darkspawn was so overpowering. As it was, the fireball blazed the air around them, catching the pitch, shaking the tunnel with a roar, and the ceiling above started to crash down on them.

There was no time to think. Reacting solely on instinct she turned and leapt, pushing Duncan and herself away from the flames engulfing the tunnel. As she fell to the ground a weight crushed down on her body, knocking the wind from her body. She gasped out a scream, trying to wriggle out from under the slab of the tunnel's ceiling that had her pinned.

Above her, Edmund yelled out a swear-filled apology. At her sides, the three human Wardens were dodging away from falling rocks. Behind her, darkspawn screamed and burned and started charging through the remaining flames.

She gaged—burning darkspawn smelled _so _much worse than normal darkspawn.

She watched as Duncan and the others glanced at her and then each other drew their blades as darkspawn broke through the flames and approached the choke point. With her one free arm, she grimaced and gave Duncan a thumbs-up—the rock was heavy and she couldn't move, but it wouldn't kill her. The darkspawn definitely would.

Pinned face down and facing back towards Sam and Edmund—who managed to stop freaking out and were launching non-flammable ranged attacks towards the darkspawn—she couldn't actually see the fight.

What she could see was a dwarf running towards her. She blinked and met his eyes, and for a second she was back in the Proving arena, facing down the Prince of Orzammar. She blinked again. He was still there, now kneeling at her side. Maybe the gas in these tunnels didn't just explode—maybe it also made people go absolutely crazy. She was feeling a bit light headed, come to think…

"Are you hurt?"

She blinked up at him. A slab of tunnel sealing had her nearly crushed. No shit, she was hurt. Alas, as she only had one hand with limited mobility and the other completely inaccessible, she only nodded in reply.

She watched as the prince took stock of the surroundings, as he took stock of the two ranged combatants and the three Wardens engaged in melee with darkspawn in various states of inflammation, and the pieces of the tunnel blown to bits. Yeah, they were kind of a mess. To be fair, he looked like he'd seen better days himself. His blonde hair and beard were completely disheveled and filthy, he was wearing armor on par with what she wore in the carta—that is to say, scraps that barely held together. To top it off, every bit of him was covered in questionable grime.

The prince unstrapped the metal shield from his arm and slipped it halfway beneath the rock slab. Liri caught on quick enough—he was going to use it as a lever. "I won't be able to lift it for long. Get ready to drag yourself out."

He strained, grunting with the force it took to shift the slab enough for her to get even a sliver of room to maneuver. She scraped herself across the ground, clearing out just barely before his grip slipped.

Liri barely allowed herself more than a moment to breathe before staggering to her feet, daggers drawn in her grip. She ignored both the pain in her sides and the prince's suggestions to stay down and stalked towards a pair of genlocks pressuring Oliver. There weren't many darkspawn left—between the Warden's expert combat work and the earlier explosion, all that was left was for her to slip around the edges and shank the baddies from behind. The prince was hardly idle, either—his shield was back on his arm and he stood alongside the Wardens and helped finish of the darkspawn.

They stood in the aftermath of the encounter, singed and sore but overall no worse for wear. She watched briefly as Duncan and his fellow Wardens grouped around the prince, but turned away from them and staggered to Edmund, gripping her sides.

"I'm so, so sorry. I screwed up. We're lucky no one died," He said, looking rightly ashamed of himself.

_"__Don't worry about it. That was kind of the culmination of all of us not really paying attention. Anyways, you're still new at fighting with a group, and to be honest I normally worked alone. This is new to both of us. Plus, you know, darkspawn and explosive invisible gas," _she said.

Edmund sighed, twisting his staff in his grip. Poor guy just looked so disappointed with himself. "Classic case of 'wizard casts fireball, party gets fucked.'" Liri blinked at him, and he only shrugged. "Ok, so how bad were you hurt? I'm honestly surprised you're up and moving around right now."

_"__Dwarves are a bit sturdier than you delicate surfacers. I'll be just fine—feels like I might have bruised my ribs though. Think you could magic me all better? You mages can do that, right?"_

"Ah. Well, yes, technically, I suppose. Thing is… I don't know how to do that. Not without potentially setting you on fire anyways, and I think you've had enough near-death experiences for today," said Edmund sheepishly.

Liri grimaced. She didn't know enough about magic shit to push it, but she knew she definitely did not want to chance his pyromaniac tendencies. _"__Did you see Aeducan's here?"_

"Yeah. He looks like hell. Must have been trailing us for days; have to give him credit for jumping straight in to help with no questions asked."

Liri frowned up at the mage. He was watching Aeducan and Duncan with almost a casual indifference, almost like he was bored, or distracted by something in his own brain. Was he just not as interested in the fact that a dwarven ruler of Orzammar appears out of nowhere in the middle of the Deep Roads separated from his troops and looking like shit? Maybe. Not like Aeducan was his ruler, after all.

Duncan's voice rose to fill the chamber. "As leader of the Grey Wardens, I would like to formally invite you to join our Order."

Wait. What?

"I accept."

Sodding _what?_

—

Introductions were made, though they hardly seemed necessary. His fellow Wardens made polite conversation with the recruit as was their custom, but they were scarcely in a position to carry on conversation.

Duncan had to credit their dwarven companions—despite current injuries and levels of exhaustion, both insisted on carrying forward with the current mission, though Duncan noticed Aothor's weakened condition and quietly passed him a water jug—it did them no good if the former prince died of dehydration before he was able to attempt his Joining.

Duncan double-checked their supplies as the party stopped for a quick rest. Despite the addition to their team, they wouldn't need to thin out their rations.

Edmund had been adamant about packing an extra set of everything, including armor and bedding, even volunteering to carry the extra equipment himself. He and the other Wardens, even Liri, had chalked it up to nerves and fear of getting lost or separated in the depths, and allowed him the extra equipment simply to humor him.

Now, watching as Edmund offered Aothor a pack of rations and some basic pieces of armor—armor sized for a dwarf, no less, Duncan couldn't help but wonder…

Duncan was pulled from his musings by Liri tapping his arm to get his attention.

_"__Hey, what the fuck? You weren't serious about Aeducan in the Wardens, were you?"_

"His story is his own to tell, so I would suggest you ask him yourself. I will simply say that he has found he is no longer welcome in Orzammar, and has found a new home with the Wardens. Not so unlike yourself, perhaps."

Liri bristled, something like offense or disgust overcoming her features. _"I'm nothing like him. There better be a sodding good punch line, because so far this joke isn't funny."_

"I have told you before—the Wardens take anyone and everyone who display the skill and willpower necessary for standing against the darkspawn. Soldiers, commoners…" he gave the dwarven woman a pointed look, nodding in Aothor's direction as he spoke, "criminals, and kings. The old lives are left behind, and all Wardens stand equally together."

Liri huffed, turning away. Duncan knew there would be an adjusting period, especially with recruits from such vastly different walks of life. Liri and Edmund had already settled into a comfortable comradery with one another—now it only remained to see how Aothor would fit into their mix. Liri somehow managed to avoid interacting with Aothor for the entire rest of the day. To be fair, Aothor barely looked coherent enough to continue putting one foot in front of the other, let alone carry on a conversation.

Duncan called for an early night stop and they located a dead-end to camp in. The night proceeded quietly on all fronts—Aothor inhaled his rations and promptly passed out on the spare bedroll, Liri took the first watch with Oliver, and Edmund busied himself writing in a journal by the light of a small flame in his free palm, which would occasionally flicker out or combust in a small explosion, nearly costing the man his eyebrows.

Needless to say, they all kept a solid ten feet from the mage all night.

Morning, or what the dwarves of the team informed them was morning, brought a nest of angry deepstalkers not long after they'd eaten breakfast and packed up.

"You're certainly putting that mace to good use," Aothor said, watching as Liri used the weapon in question to bash the last deepstalker's skull in.

Liri raised a brow, turning the weapon over in her grip before hooking it to her belt. _"Not like I was gonna use it to scratch my ass. Don't usually go for blunt weapons, but this one's so nice I wouldn't pass it up."_

If the use of handspeech surprised Aothor, he did not show it, and he seemed to understand her just fine as well. They were interacting, and it was even borderline positive. Duncan saw this as a win.

"Your form is good too; just don't put too much force behind your swings or you'll tire yourself out. Let the weight of the mace carry itself and you'll save more energy."

Ah. Duncan sighed, running a hand over his face. Perhaps he'd spoken too soon.

Liri cocked her head to the side, rolling her eyes. _"I could do that. Or I could hit the things really hard so they die really fast."_

"Yes, but if you expend energy too quickly you'll run out of stamina. Endurance is key to winning a series of encounters."

Liri hummed, smirking. _"I've never had a problem with endurance, though I understand not all of us can be so fortunate. If you're looking for help with your stamina, some noble hunters told me about this herb they like to give their deshyrs…"_

Aothor blinked, the full set of her remark taking a moment to sink in. "Are we… even talking about the same thing anymore?"

_"__Of course. Who wouldn't benefit from a boost to their endurance? Though, in my experience, it's only you noble boys who have problems with stamina."_

Edmund snickered, "I don't think I can summon ice cold enough to soothe those burns, Aeducan. You walked right into that one."

Aothor, who just a moment earlier looked quite indignant and prepared to give what would surely have been a scathing come-back, deflated immediately. "Aothor. Just Aothor, please. I'm no longer an Aeducan."

"Oh. Right. Sorry." Edmund fidgeted awkwardly. Liri gave Aothor a curious look, but shrugged and continued down the passage without another word.

Sam leaned over to whisper in Duncan's ear. "So… were they fighting, or flirting?"

Duncan sighed. "Sometimes there isn't much of a difference."


	8. A Burning Castle (Part 2)

He breathed in, the air fresher than it had been all week. Edmund, for one, could not wait to see sunlight again. Grimy, tired, and sore all over, he and the Wardens were revitalized by the promise of drawing nearer to the surface.

Fuck the Deep Roads. The "main campaign" hadn't even started yet and he already had enough material to fuel his nightmares for the next several years. On the plus side, there was no guarantee he'd even survive long enough for the Orzammar quest line later on, so he may never have to deal with that again.

The concept quickly became far more sobering—and panicking—so he shut that train of thought down before the anxiety could set in. Somehow he'd managed to postpone the full-mental-breakdown, but he knew wouldn't be able to hold it off much longer. Sooner or later he was going to need to find a nice secluded corner where he could process everything without anyone asking any well-deserved questions about his mental state.

To be fair, he'd done better than he originally expected so far. He was still alive, at least. And the traveling he was doing now with Duncan from origin story to origin story was helping him build the skills and experience he'd need later. This whole "fake it 'til you make it" mentality was serving him better than ever before.

The last few days in the Deep Roads hadn't been so bad as the first ones, comparatively. They were encountering fewer and fewer darkspawn, apparently because they'd gathered enough to know that all the darkspawn were collectively gathering in the south, and Duncan had turned their group north towards an exit.

While he and the other humans found renewed energy at the promise of surfacing, their dwarven companions were far less excited. Liri continually looked back over their shoulder, like she was having second thoughts and wondering if going back was worth it. Aothor, who was doing remarkably well given his half-dead state just a few days ago, was dead-eyed and steely as they marched onwards.

"I promise if you start falling up into the sky I'll grab onto you and hold you down," Edmund said, falling into step beside Liri.

Liri looked up at him, eyes wide. _"Wouldn't you fly away too?"_

"Nah. You see, we all wear spikes on the bottom of our shoes, keeps us stuck to the ground."

She cast a skeptical look towards his boots. _"Then why aren't there any on yours?"_

"These are my underground shoes, you see. I have a different pair I wear topside."

"Relax, he's joking. People don't actually fall into the sky," said Aothor, rolling his eyes. He still cast Edmund a concerned look, almost like he was simply praying this was all a joke. Edmund shrugged. Liri kicked him in the shins.

"I honestly think you guys will like the surface, once you get used to it. It's so much more colorful than underground. Well. Actually most of Ferelden is just as brown as Orzammar is. But I'm sure it's beautiful sometimes. Somewhere."

_"__Fantastic. Nice to know we have so much to look forwards to," s_he huffed. Regardless of whatever resentment she held towards Aothor and his former station, right now they did have something to mutually bond over—the unknown.

Edmund twisted his staff in his hand idly. "To be perfectly honest, I haven't even seen most of Ferelden," Not in real life, anyways. "I've spent most of my life in the Circle, and I was born a Marcher. It'll be an adventure for all of us." Thank goodness for all the random dives he'd taken into the Dragon Age Wiki pages during his more bored evenings. All that supposedly useless information was coming in clutch now.

Still, once he met Wynne it would become painfully apparent he didn't know the actual events of the real Edmund's life. But he'd burn that bridge when he got to it.

The tunnels around them became less refined and less structured and glowing stones were replaced with rustic torches as they followed Duncan through the passages and up a spiraled set of questionable wooden stairs. The planks groaned and creaked under their weight, but didn't threaten to break. Something about this place pulled at the back of his mind, but he couldn't place it.

Fresh air filled his lungs as they stepped outside. Liri and Aothor lingered back in the cave. Duncan motioned for them to come out and the humans waited patiently, seating themselves on nearby boulders, understanding the dwarves would have to take some time to adjust.

Aothor was the first to emerge. His steps were shaky and he kept his gaze fixed firmly to his boots, as if looking up to see the sky would somehow cause him to fall into it.

Liri, however, marched out with her head held high. She stared upwards for a minute into the expanse of blue, then unceremoniously turned, fell on all fours, and threw up.

Edmund, at something of a loss, awkwardly patted her back as she wretched.

Aothor stumbled and fell to his knees, breathing heavily. "Stone, I think I'm going to pass out. Breathing feels so… weird. It's so bright up here…" Edmund watched as the dwarf squinted, blinking his eyes in an effort to adjust.

The small groan that escaped Liri sounded something akin to an agreement, finally done spilling the contents of her gut. Rather than get up, she stayed on the ground, running her fingers through the grass.

"We're surface dwarves now. We can't ever go back."

_"__We're not just surfacers," _Liri says, finally righting herself. _"We're Grey fucking Wardens." _Liri stands, looking at Aothor with what Edmund can only vicariously translate as a challenge. Aothor steels himself, rising both to that challenge and to his feet.

They both look paler than normal, and their gazes fixed level or toward the ground, and Edmund worries that Aothor might drop like a sack of rocks at any given moment or that Liri might continue her retching, but they definitely looked better than they did a moment ago.

"Sorry for the hold up," says Aothor. "We're ready to go."

"It's quite alright," said Duncan. "I fear it will likely take you several days to adapt to the new environment, but in the meantime we should continue on."

For all the ordeal that was the dwarves first time on the surface, Edmund couldn't help but just be relieved to be in the sunlight again. He turned to take in their surroundings— during the few short weeks that they'd been underground, autumn had taken hold of most of the scenery. A few trees still kept their green, but several were alight with red orange and yellow leaves. Though the air had a chill, the sunlight was warm on his face. They were up on something like a hill, and in the land stretched out before them there sat a little village near a small lake resting in the shadow of… a dam.

Edmund stood, turning to Duncan. "Where are we?" he asked, not completely able to keep the nerves out of his voice.

"Northern Ferelden," Duncan said, "Not too far from the Storm Coast and Highever. I believe this town is called Crestwood."

Stumbling corpses rising out of a lake to assail the living, a lake formed from the destruction of this beautiful little town. Refugees drowned to death in the very caves they just emerged from. In just a few short months—maybe even weeks—Crestwood would be changed forever.

They fell into procession down the hill, and Edmund fell in step with Duncan. "Shouldn't we warn these people about the darkspawn?"

"And what would we tell them?"

"That they're not safe. That they need to evacuate. I don't know, just, we should do something." It wasn't just that _they_ had to do something. _He_ had to do something. Maybe they could evacuate the town? Where would they even go? The Free Marches, perhaps? He wanted to use what he knew to help people. These people needed help—if not now, then very, very soon, and he would probably get another chance like this to aid them.

"All that would do is create a senseless panic at this point, if they even believed us. Crestwood is far to the north of Ostagar, for now completely safe, as far as they likely see it. The best way we can help these people is to return to Ostagar and present the results of our mission to the King and pray that we can end the darkspawn threat before it can spread farther," Duncan said. He looked at Edmund with an expression that reminded him uncannily of his dad. "Edmund, your heart is in the right place. But knowing when to pick your battles is an important part of being a Grey Warden. For now, let's simply focus on resting and preparing for the journey ahead."

Duncan lead them instead of into the town, up the road nearby and to the tavern settled at the top of the dam—the Rusted Horn, if Edmund remembered right. If he weren't currently in the throes of a moral dilemma, he'd be excited about his first visit to an actual tavern, Dungeons and Dragons style.

The innkeeper, somehow unsurprisingly, seemed to be an old friend of Duncan's and gave them a round of free drinks and a discount on a hot meal. Eager for food that wasn't field rations, they all stowed their gear in their rooms and sat down together.

Ferelden food was something he was still getting used to, but at this point Edmund was just glad for something that wasn't dried druffalo jerky or stale crackers. The soup the inn served was, admittedly, a bit bland, and he wasn't sure what the grey chunks in it were, but that wasn't going to stop him.

"I believe we should take this opportunity to discuss our next steps," Duncan said as the innkeeper brought out seven mugs of what Edmund assumed would be ale.

"What's to decide?" One of the Wardens, Oliver, asked, already bringing the mug to his mouth. "We're heading back to Ostagar come morning, aren't we? We've got to deliver this intel to King Cailan."

"Yes, the king must be alerted as soon as possible. That is why the three of you will make for Ostagar first thing tomorrow."

"And what'll you be doing?" asked Farrien.

"I plan to make for Highever tomorrow and go on to Denerim from there."

"More recruiting? With these three, plus the two waiting for us at the army camp, we'll have five recruits. That's plenty, don't you think?"

Duncan shook his head. "Recruitment is not my primary concern with this trip, though I wouldn't pass up an opportunity if it presents itself. We'd only counted on no more than three total recruits, but now we have five, and we do not have enough… supplies… to Join all of our new recruits. I need to stop by the Denerim compound to retrieve more components."

"What kind of components?" Aothor asked. Edmund watched as the Wardens shared a long look. For his part, he decided this was the perfect opportunity to dig into his potatoes.

"Something you recruits will discover once we get to Ostagar. Don't worry too much about it for now," said Sam. "I'll say that this will likely be the most interesting group of recruits the Wardens have seen in quite some years—we've got a pick-pocket, a knight, a mage, an ex-carta member, and former dwarven royal." The attempt to switch the topic was obvious and clumsy and Edmund had a feeling that Aothor wasn't going to let it go quite so easily.

"To be fair, I feel that our group had a strange mix as well," chuckled Oliver.

Edmund caught Liri signing across the table and began to interpret aloud for the others at the table. _"How did you all join the Wardens?"_ Liri asked.

"I actually got rejected by the Wardens the first two times I volunteered to Join." Oliver said, smiling fondly at the memory.

Edmund frown thoughtfully—he wasn't sure he'd ever heard of the Wardens rejecting anyone before. Oliver caught his look and guessed what he was thinking easily enough. "Well we Wardens don't just take anyone, you know. You've got to have certain skills, and a certain temperament. I didn't have either until later on."

"So how did you end up here if they didn't want to take you?" asked Aothor.

"I'll get to it. My father was a wealthy merchant. Our family owned a fair few trading ships and did business with the Free Marches and Orlais, and I was an entitled brat with more sovereigns than he knew what to do with."

_"__Funny, I didn't have you pegged as a rich boy," _said Liri. Edmund gave Oliver a considering look. He was a bit older, probably near Duncan's age, and everything from his build to his beard was unkempt as the rest of them.

"I suppose I'll take that as a compliment. Anyways, I had a bit of a gambling problem and got on the wrong side of some powerful people of ill repute. I was on bad terms with my family so they wouldn't buy me out, so I figured I'd join the Wardens as an escape route, never mind that I didn't know the sharp end of a sword from the grip. I was turned away and told to get myself some training if I wanted to be a Warden—which to be fair, I didn't, I just didn't want to be gutted by some goons in my sleep. I had to get out of town to avoid that, so I joined a caravan and took to a life on the roads for a few years. Picked up some handy skills, joined a band of mercenaries, all that rot. Met some Wardens again three years after my initial attempt to join, and you know what happened?"

"They turned him down flat—again," Sam snickered into his goblet.

"Why? You said you were skilled by that time," Edmund asked. He felt a small nagging in the back of his skull that he managed to join the Wardens with nearly no practical combat knowledge, and sooner or later his luck was going to give and the others would realize that. It was miraculous that none of the others had clued in yet, though he had a sinking suspicion that Duncan was realizing. Again, another bridge he'd burn when the time came.

"Sure, I was competent in a fight and had a strong sword arm, but I was still the same brat that I was the first time. The arrogance and selfishness was still engrained in my system, and they picked up on that right away."

"Entitled is an ugly look on a Warden," Duncan added softly.

"Not that we're all Chantry Sisters or anything like that," Farrien chimed in, "but this lifestyle—this mission—it requires people who can think beyond themselves."

"Exactly. So, it wasn't until another four years after that when I actually ended up becoming a Warden. I learned a lot of hard lessons about life and sacrifice and ate a few slices of humble pie along the way. I was invited to join the Wardens after we had a chance encounter and saved each other from a bandit ambush. Funny, after I'd given up on the Wardens, they came to me. Just shows you never know what's going to happen, I suppose."

"Right, right, very inspirational. Don't go getting all sentimental on us now, Ollie. There's still time yet for you to be gobbled up by an ogre," Farrien said, rolling his eyes.

Oliver shrugged, turning with renewed interest to his dinner. "I'm touched, truly I am. Go on then, it's story time. Your turn to share."

"Right. I'll keep this short then. I was a thief, sort of still am, and a damn good one to boot. I can get in anywhere and get out without anyone noticing. Stole all kinds of shit back in the day, but I mostly went for jewels. Easy to redistribute and sell, even easier to fake and replace to so no one notices anything is gone until possibly years later."

_"__So what happened? You get caught?"_

"Madam, how you wound me!" Farrien said, holding his heart overdramatically as if he'd been struck. "I'll have you know my record is unbroken. Never got caught, at least not for stealing. See, I was just about to hit this big mark in Gwaren when I accidently caused a stampede of druffalo in the market district and got arrested."

Edmund couldn't help but laugh a little. "How do you 'accidentally' cause a druffalo stampede?"

"Well it's not like it's something most folks would try to do on purpose! Anyways, that's not the point. The guards had me in cuffs when good ol' Duncan here steps forward, asks the guards a couple questions, and next thing I know I'm on my way to becoming a Warden instead of the nearest cell to be tried for excessive damage of personal and public property."

"That's… wow." Aothor said. The dwarven man turned to Duncan with skepticism on his face. "Is that true, or is he bullshitting us?"

"It was one of the odder turns of events I've witnessed, but yes, it's true. I'd not have intervened if it weren't for the fact that he managed to pick clean all the pockets of all three of the guards wrangling him while they tried to wrestle him into cuffs. Something like that takes either dumb luck or professional training," said Duncan, smiling fondly at the memory.

Farrien laughed, clearly pleased with himself. "If you think that's wild, wait 'til you hear Sam's conscription story. This madman—"

"No."

"Oh, but Sammy, please, let me tell it!"

Sam shook his head, taking a long and heavy drink from his cup. "Absolutely not. I shouldn't have even told you, let alone let you tell the last batch of recruits. No."

"But what you did with the turkeys and the glue was legendary!"

"Farrien, shut your mouth, or I'll shut it for you."

Farrien turned to them all dramatically, and Edmund couldn't help but sit on the edge of his seat. "You see, dear Sam here used to be a perfectly ordinary baker. It turns out, all you need to impress the Wardens is three barrels of glue, four turkeys, an all-female traveling circus, and just a little bit of—"

They never found out what the fourth component was because Sam leapt and tackled Farrien out of his seat and onto the ground.

Edmund watched and laughed as the two of them wrestled each other on the floor and Duncan and Oliver's weak attempt to break them up. They spent the evening sharing stories of their exploits, of their close encounters and near escapes. Several times Farrien teased them with details of Sam's recruitment, and each time Sam responded by either hurling a projectile at the rogue or just tackling him again to the floor—all in a mostly good-natured way.

It wasn't until late into the night that they took to their room, tired, but filled with food, ale, and plenty of outlandish tales.

It wasn't until he laid down on the cot that Edmund realized a terrible, inescapable fact. Sam, Farrien, and Oliver would die very, very soon. Duncan would die very, very soon.

He hated to admit it to himself, but until tonight he'd always regard the three other Wardens as… well, as NPCs. They weren't important characters in the game. Hell, he didn't even think they were in the game at all except as background characters in the Dwarven Noble Origin. They were never named or referenced again, just one of the many faceless casualties of Ostagar.

Did it make him a terrible person that it was only now, after hearing their stories and their stories, that he was even taking their lives into account?

Edmund sat up in the cot, holding his head in his hands. The worst part was that it would be easiest to let them die. They weren't part of the narrative at all. He already had uncontrolled elements in play with just Liri and Aothor, and if they were going to Highever and Denerim then they'd probably at least get Cousland and Tabris as well, and likely also Mahariel. There was no need to keep the three of them alive.

But they were people. Real actual people with real actual dreams and loves and goals. And so were all the people in Crestwood who would be killed by a flood and by corpses unless he did something about it.

He reached into his bag and pulled out his journal and quill and ink, calling a small candle-sized flame to his palm for light. It was filling up surprisingly fast, sort of becoming his own actual codex for lore, maps, and information, and all of it was written in English so only he could read it.

He dipped his quill in the ink and started to plan.

"Isn't there anything I can do to convince you to let me come with you, Father?" It was a weak request and Peter knew it. Every time he brought up the battle and his desire to accompany his Father and brother he was shut down. He didn't even know why he kept asking, save for perhaps the small hope that maybe he could nag them into giving in.

Father smiled good-naturedly, but there was a tiredness behind it. "I'm certain you'd more than prove yourself, but I'm not at all willing to deal with your mother if you join the war effort. She'd kill me if I let you come along. I know she hides it well, but I'm sure she's plenty twisted up as it is with Fergus and I going."

It wasn't fair, and he just wanted to help. But Peter knew he shouldn't push it anymore than he already had, especially with Arl Howe watching the exchange awkwardly from Father's side.

Peter sighed, disheartened, but not yet defeated. "As you say, Father. Though perhaps I'll be able to change Mother's mind, yet. I'll talk to her."

"I doubt that. You know your mother—once she's determined something, she doesn't waver, and her mind is already made up. I suppose that's the trouble though; you're just the same way that she is."

"I know that looking after Highever is important, Father. But I can't just sit idly by while you and Fergus are risking your lives on your own."

Father chuckled. "I don't imagine the two of us will be fighting the entire horde single-handedly. We're taking the bulk of our forces with us. If anything, I'm worried about you and your mother. Only a token force is remaining here in Highever and they'll have to be spread thin across the region to keep the peace."

"And when the cat is away, the mice will play. I understand," said Peter.

"Now then, there's a reason I called you here." Father turned to a guardsman stationed at the door and nodded. "Please, show them in."

The guards dutifully opened the door and four individuals entered the hall, two humans and two dwarves. They were all armed and armored, and clearly weathered and worn from travel. The oldest of the lot, and clearly the leader, approached where Peter stood with his Father and Arl Howe while the other three hung back several feet.

Arl Howe sputtered and stammered for a moment, probably caught off guard by the sudden appearance of these people in the castle. "Your Lordship, you did not mention that a Grey Warden would be present."

Peter surveyed the group while Arl Howe continued to fluster. The stern-looking dwarven man stood at attention in rigid posture, also clearly taking stock of the people before him. The petit dwarven woman, Peter noticed, was eyeing the silver chalices on a nearby display with great interest. He made a note to get a guard to keep an eye out for any sticky fingers. A human man, probably close to his own age, stood between the two of them. The most notable thing about him wasn't his pretty blue eyes or well-proportioned features—though Peter definitely did notice—but the intensity with which he was gazing at Arl Howe.

Peter shifted, on the alert at once. Men who looked at someone like that only ever did so with deadly intent.

He was already of half a mind to call a guard when he was startled from his thoughts by a question from his father. "Ah—yes, Father. They Grey Wardens are an ancient order of warriors." As his father elaborated, Peter looked back at the man only to find that his gaze had shifted from Howe to him, though any bloodlust he thought he'd sensed from before was gone. Peter met his gaze, brow raised. The man blinked once, then twice, then looked away, staring blankly into the air.

Paranoid or not, Peter would get someone to watch him. You couldn't be too careful.

"Pup, this is Ser Duncan of the Grey Wardens. Duncan, this is Arl Howe, an old friend of mine, and this is my youngest son, Peter. Duncan, I take it these are your fellow Wardens?"

"Nearly, your Lordship. These are Warden Recruits Amell, Brosca, and Aothor." Each bowed briefly as Ser Duncan introduced them, save for the dwarven woman, who seemed at a loss with the proper protocol and just sort of waved.

"Ah, that's right, you did say you were travelling for recruitment," Father turned towards him briefly with an aside remark. "Sir Gilmore seemed to catch his eye earlier, I believe."

Rod? He was certainly a capable fighter, and a good man, but Peter didn't know if he liked the thought of his best and oldest friend leaving and fighting darkspawn for the rest of the life. He'd simply never considered a future when Roderick Gilmore wasn't standing at his side.

"If I might be so bold, I would also suggest that your son is also an excellent candidate. I recall he was a formidable fighter in the tourney I observed on my last visit." said Duncan, clearly eyeing the great-axe strapped to his back.

Immediately his father was on the defensive, shifting slightly so that he stood between him and the Wardens. "Honor though that may be, this is one of my sons we're talking about."

"Don't worry Father; much as I want to fight against the darkspawn, I'd rather do it with you and Fergus than with the Wardens," said Peter, putting a reassuring hand on his father's shoulder.

Duncan raised his hands in a yielding motion. "Have no fear. While we need as many good recruits as can be found, I've no intention of forcing the issue."

Father visibly relaxed, removing himself from between Peter and Duncan. "Peter, Duncan and his recruits will only be here for a few nights, but can you ensure that all of Duncan's requests are seen to while I'm gone?"

"Certainly. Provided, of course, that I'm here to see to them and I'm not off with you to Ostagar," Peter said with a grin.

Father gave him a stern look but seemed to decide that it wasn't the time or place to renew the issue for the millionth time. "Go find Fergus for me, tell him that he'll be leading the troops to Ostagar ahead of me. We need to discuss the coming battle and strategies. We'll talk more later."

Peter looked back over at the Warden Recruits before he left the hall. Recruit Brosca was still eyeing the silver chalices, maybe even standing nearer to them than she had been moments previously. Recruit Aothor had relaxed his posture only slightly but was still dutiful as ever. Recruit Amell was tapping his foot with rhythmic impatience, but otherwise seemed pretty absent-minded.

Had he just imagined that look, earlier? Maybe all Fergus's talk of infiltrations and warnings about assassins was just getting him a little paranoid.

Still. Someone was going to need to lock up those silver chalices soon. It would probably be damaging to their relationship with the Wardens if they had to arrest one of their recruits for theft.

Ser Gilmore met him just down the corridor. "Finally! The Teyrna told me the Teyrn had summoned you, so I didn't want to interrupt. Did you convince him to let you come with him?"

"Not quite, but I think I'm finally getting somewhere. We got some guests that kind of interrupted the conversation. Have you seen the Grey Wardens staying here yet?"

"I have. I spoke briefly with Ser Duncan when they arrived a few hours ago. Apparently they're here to rest on their recruitment mission. I think there's been some talk of them testing me, actually," Gilmore said, sounding quite dazed at the thought. "Can you imagine? Me, a Warden?"

"I can imagine it. What do you think? About joining the Wardens."

"I don't know. I've always planned on living my life here in Highever. I've never really considered anything besides this. If nothing else, having the opportunity is… exciting? Interesting? Frightening? Take your pick." Gilmore turned to him with a considering look. "Though honestly, I'm surprised they're not trying to recruit you. You've won plenty of tournaments, and you've trained a good portion of our more recent soldiers in combat yourself."

Peter shrugged. "It was mentioned, but Father put his foot down. I don't think I'd want to be a Warden anyways."

"Fair enough. Fun to have the option though, isn't it?"

"I suppose. I won't lie, I'm partial to keeping you around Highever. Who else is going to smuggle the mabari pups bacon with me when the kennel master isn't looking?"

"Aw, I'm touched—oh! That reminds me, I came to find you because that hound of yours has the kitchens in an uproar again. Nan is threatening to leave. Again." Ser Gilmore said cheerfully.

Peter barked a laugh as the two of them started walking towards the kitchens. "That's what, three times this week she's threatened to quit? She was my nurse, and she's been here since Fergus was born, and I swear she'll be here 'til he dies."

"Fair enough, but your mother disagrees. She insists we collect the dog immediately. You know these mabari hounds. They listen only to their masters; anyone else risks having an arm bitten off."

"Lady knows better than to hurt anyone." He'd made sure of that when Fergus had Oren—on no account would Oriana or Mother allow Lady near the boy unless she was properly trained.

"Gentle as she can be, she's got a wicked set of teeth and she's not afraid to use them if she thinks she needs to. She's still a wardog, after all. We should get her before Nan has a stroke," Gilmore said, "You're quite lucky to have your own mabari. Smart enough to talk, my father used to tell me."

"Indeed. Smart enough to talk, and wise enough not to say anything," Peter laughed, "She gets bored so easily though. I'm convinced she stirs up trouble just for entertainment."

Shrieks, howls, and the clatter of something falling over echoed down the hall, and they both winced slightly at the sound.

"Come on then, let's hop to it. When Nan's unhappy, she makes sure everyone knows."

They followed the commotion to the kitchen and found Nan giving the kitchen staff an earful. He'd been on the receiving end of Nan's lectures enough times to relate to the poor elves. She rounded on them when Gilmore made their presence in the room known, and Peter couldn't help but shrink slightly under her gaze. Maker, she was almost as scary as Mother.

"Your bloody bitch keeps getting into my larder! That beast should be put down!" Her face was red and veins were popping. This kind of stress was likely not good for her health.

Peter held up his hands in a placating motion. "I'm sorry, Nan. I'll get her out of your way."

Nan huffed, crossing her arms. "Just get her gone. I've enough to worry about already with a castle of hungry soldiers!" Nan said as she ushered the kitchen staff out of the way.

Peter opened the door with a sharp whistle, calling Lady's attention before he'd even stepped fully into the room. His faithful mabari focused on him, bright eyes gleaming, before turning away and pacing the larder, nose to the stone sniffing rapidly.

Peter watched her curiously as she investigated a shelf of cheeses, before abruptly pawing at it, knocking a rather large wheel or Orlesian cheddar onto the floor.

"Ah, look at that mess. How did she even manage to get in here?" Gimlore wondered, surveying the state of the room.

Peter moved to stand next to his dog. She cocked her head up at him briefly before growling intently at the cheese shelf. "I think she's looking for something… and I don't mean steaks." He gripped the shelf and shifted it. No sooner had he moved it a few inches than rats the size of small dogs began scurrying from a hole in the wall.

"What the—!" Peter stumbled backwards, but not quick enough, and one of the rats bit him in the ankle, sharp teeth piercing through his boots. His hand went to his great-axe, but Lady was quicker, grabbing the rat by the neck and crushing it in her jaw.

He and Gilmore pulled their weapons, and went to work on the rats. Barring a few nicked toes and minor scrapes, the large rats proved to be more gross than genuinely dangerous. Twenty-some rats lied in the storeroom in various states of stabbed, beheaded, and mangled by the time they were finished.

"Well," Peter said, whipping the edge of his weapon with a cloth, "at least we caught it before it turned into a full-blown infestation."

"This is like the start of every bad adventure tale my grandfather used to tell," said Gilmore. "Looks like Lady chased them in here through their holes. Guess she wasn't raiding the larder after all."

"That's right! Who's a smart girl? Who's a genius little Lady? You're such a good girl, yes you are!" Peter cooed, scratching her behind the ears. Lady panted heavily, blood staining her snowy fur, and wagged her stub-tail excitedly.

"Right. Well, with that taken care of, I'll be off. I'm to help prepare for the arrival of more of the Arl's men," He said, turning to go.

Peter caught him by the shoulder. "One thing—can you have some guards keep an eye on the Warden Recruits? Seems one of them might have a case of the sticky fingers, and another one… makes me uneasy."

"Wardens do come from all walks of life, I suppose. I'll set some men to it." Gilmore re-opened the larder door, and as soon as he did Nan stormed in, tunnel vision of anger focused on Lady. Gilmore gave him a sympathetic look and slipped out. Peter couldn't help but be a little envious.

"There she is, brazen as you please, licking her chops after helping herself to the roast, no doubt!" She bellowed. Lady barked, spinning in place, stepping on several rat corpses. It took a second for Nan tp put it together, but she did in short enough order. "Eugh, disgusting. Well, at least these filthy things are dead."

"All that we could find, thanks to lovely Lady here," Peter said, patting her on the head.

"I bet that filthy dog let those rats in there to begin with!" Nan said. Lady whined plaintively. "Oh, don't start with the sad eyes. I'm immune to your so-called charms." Lady whined again, drooping her ears for added effect. "Oh, fine. Take these pork bits and don't say Nan never gives you anything. Bloody bitch."

Lady scarfed down the scraps eagerly, enthusiasm restored.

Peter turned to her after they left the kitchen with a knowing look. "You know, that was some Grade A manipulation. I think it could even count as extortion."

She barked cheerfully, wagging her tail as if to confirm she was completely aware of the fact herself. Good girl.

He made a quick stop at the treasury before going to find his family. The guardsmen within jolted as he opened the door, cards falling out of their hands and onto the floor. "Shit! It's not what it looks like, we were just—oh, thank the Maker, it's just you."

"Bit jumpy today, aren't we boys?" Peter mused.

"Oh come off it, you know the captain's been on our asses more than usual. Can't hurt to be cautious," he said, scrambling to pick up the fallen cards.

"Right, because if the captain had walked in just now instead, it wouldn't be totally obvious that you're playing Diamondback instead of guarding the treasury. Very cautions, Gunther."

"To be honest, I don't even understand why we're stationed here. Not like anyone ever comes around here. Well, except you. You didn't come at the usual time, so we figured you were busy with something and started without you, hope you don't mind. So, you playing or what? Herbert, deal him in."

"Not today, I still have some business to take care of, but you blokes have fun." said Peter.

"Then why'd you bloody come charging in here and giving me a heart attack?" Gunther demanded.

"Just letting you know I wasn't going to make it, and besides, someone's got to keep you lot on your toes." Peter waved good-naturedly, closing the door again and resuming his path down the hall, Lady trotting along after him.

Mother waited for him expectantly in the hall along with a group of people Peter didn't immediately recognize. "Ah, here you are. I take it by the presence of that troublesome hound that the situation in the kitchen has been resolved?"

"Yes. Lady tracked down some giant rats hiding out in the larder," Peter said, unable to keep the pride out of his voice.

"Ah. That would explain the red on her coat, wouldn't it? What a marvelous thing for our guests to hear. Oh, darling, you remember Lady Landra of course? Bann Loren's wife?"

Lady Landra curtseyed in greeting, and Peter bowed in return. "I believe we last met at your mother's spring salon."

Peter recalled the event. Recalled Lady Loren now, too. "Ah, of course. It's good to see you again, my lady."

Lady Landra giggled softly. "You're too kind, dear boy. Didn't I spend half the salon shamelessly flirting with you?" She had indeed. And done so while amazingly drunk. To be fair, Peter had shamelessly flirted back, so she wasn't wholly to blame.

The young man standing next to her looked like he wanted nothing more than to hide within the nearest bush. "You did. Right in front of your family, too."

"You remember my son Dairon, don't you? I believe the two of you sparred in the last tourney."

"And you beat me handily, as I recall. It's good to see you again, my lord." Dairon said, recovering slightly from his mortification.

"It's good to see you, too. You fought well that day. I trust your shoulder has healed without issue?" Peter asked, clasping the man's hand in greeting.

"I'll admit to some lingering soreness, but father got a mage to do some magical healing and the sprain fixed up with no issues," said Dairon.

"My apologies for that yet again—sometimes I just don't know my own strength."

"And this," Lady Landra continued, "is my lady-in-waiting, Iona." The elven woman looked alarmed at being put on the spot and froze up. "Do say something, dear."

She sputtered momentarily before dipping into a curtsey. "It is a great honor, my lord. I've heard many wonderful things about you."

"Don't look now, Eleanor, but I believe the girl has a crush on your lad."

Iona's fair complexion flared crimson. "Lady Landra!"

"Hush, Landra. The poor thing's gone scarlet." Mother giggled. Peter gave her a wary look—there was a scheming gleam in her eyes. One of these days she was going to make good on all her threats of marriage arrangements. He didn't want to give more fuel to her plans… but Iona was certainly very pretty.

"Perhaps we could speak later, Iona?"

Iona must have not been expecting that reaction, because she turned an even deeper shade of red. "As… as it pleases you, my lord."

"I'm more concerned with what pleases you, my lady."

His mother sighed loudly and Lady Landra cleared her throat. "I think perhaps I shall rest now, my dear Eleanor. Dairen, I will see you and Iona later."

"We'll retire to the study, for now." Dairen said, starting down the hall with Iona trailing after him. Peter caught her eye as she passed and winked.

"You're incorrigible, you know that?" Mother mused.

"I've not the slightest clue what you're talking about." Peter looked at her innocently, only barely containing a laugh. "Besides, I thought you said you wanted more grandchildren?"

"Once you're married, yes. But if you have your way that'll be a while off." Mother sighed wistfully. "I suppose I'll just have to dote even more on Oren, then. Perhaps Fergus and Oriana will give him some siblings once the war is over…"

"Mother… why won't you let me go with Fergus and Father?"

"Peter, we've been over this enough times already. I know it's difficult to stay in the castle and watch others ride off, but we must see to our duties first. You understand that, don't you?" It occurred to him then, that she was in the same position he was. Mother was no stranger to battle, and she knew better than he probably ever would what it all entailed.

"I know that. But I could make a difference. I can't be there for them when I'm stuck here."

"You can make a difference by making sure they don't have to worry about our land and our people while they're unable to look after it all themselves, by making sure they can come home to an estate that's well run and cared for. That's your job. No one else can do it but you. So please Pup, don't press on this anymore."

Peter faltered at her words. "Are you… not staying in the castle, then?"

"I'll be here for a few days, then I'm going with Lady Landra to her estate to keep her company for a time. Your father thinks my presence here might undermine your authority, and Landra has been meaning to get my help with some things at their estate besides." So there was no helping it, after all. He was staying here. As much as it irked him, he couldn't fault his parent's logic. Mother reached up and cupped his cheek in her hand. "Don't worry dear. It won't be long."

"I'm not worried."

"You twitch your nose when you get anxious." Peter brushed her hand away, rubbing his nose self-consciously. "I love you, my darling boy. You know that, don't you?"

"I'm twenty-five; I'm hardly a boy any longer."

"Indeed. I turn around and here you stand, a fine young man in your own right. But that doesn't mean I have you like it." Mother sighed, turning down the hall. "Go on then, you've got a job to do. I will see you soon."

He did have a job to do. But first, there was a pretty lady he needed to have a conversation with. He turned himself around and made for the study.

He spotted Iona near the far wall. Before he could even get a word out Lady stepped ahead of him and began sniffing at the woman's skirt. Peter reached out to grab her collar and pull her back, but Iona squealed with delight and began gently stroking Lady's fur.

"She is a wonderful dog! She seems so noble and intelligent," she said. Lady barked happily under the attention and praise. Iona seemed to remember herself after a moment and regained her composure. "Greetings again, my lord." She tipped in a small curtsey, and through the shifting of her thick blonde hair he saw for the first time the tips of her pointed ears.

"Greetings, my lady. I will be perfectly honest, I haven't seen many elven ladies-in-waiting."

"Lady Landra has been very good to me. I am lucky. If I may, your mother has no ladies-in-waiting herself. Isn't that unusual for a woman of her rank?"

Peter grinned, leaning against the nearby bookcase casually. "If she found a maid like you, I would certainly encourage her."

Iona flushed yet again. "You are… very kind, my lord. I am nobody special. You-you make me blush so."

"The color red does look good on you, in my humble but correct opinion." Peter winked, very aware that she was taking in his own red hair. She blushed harder, at a loss for words. "So, how long have you served Lady Landra? I don't recall seeing you at the salon last year."

The straightforward question seemed to help her regain herself. "My family has been in service to hers for many years. Lady Landra elevated my place as a reward for our loyalty. I hope… well, I hope that one day this position might pass to my daughter."

Now it was his turn to falter. "You have a daughter?" He did not mean to be so blunt with the question, but it just kind of slipped out.

"Forgive me, I shouldn't have mentioned her."

"No, no, it's quite alright. I'm sure she has your lovely eyes." Damnit. As far as recoveries went, that was not his best.

"She… she does. My sweet Amethyne. Most people say she looks quite like me. I am the only one who sees her father in her."

Shit, shit, shit. Peter was entirely thrown off. Had he misread her flustering for interest when it was actually her being uncomfortable? She had a daughter, did she have a husband too, or a lover? He was clearly in the position of power here, maybe she felt like she couldn't refuse him? Shit, fuck, ballocks.

"Well, I'm glad Lady Landra has been good to you." He'd been so damn confident, now he felt like an idiot. He cast about the room desperately, as if the bookshelves could somehow provide the answer to the increasingly awkward encounter. Just when he was beginning to put together something reasonably eloquent, he caught sight of Recruit Amell in the far corner speaking with Dairen.

The way he'd been looking at Arl Howe… Mother always said to trust his instincts. And right now his instinct were screaming that something was up with that man.

"It's been lovely speaking with you, Iona. I'll leave you to the library." He started moving before he'd even finished speaking, only barely registering Iona's startled farewell.

"Oh, my lord Peter! I didn't see you there," Dairen said at his approach. The man looked to be bouncing with excitement. "Have you met Recruit Amell? He's with the Grey Wardens! Can you believe that?"

"I told you Dairon, just Edmund is fine. Greetings, my lord. I know we saw each other in the great hall earlier, but we didn't really get the chance to speak."

"A pleasure," Peter said tensely.

"Recruit Amell—I mean, Edmund—do you think I'd be able to join the Wardens?" Dairon practically had stars in his eyes.

Edmund gave him a considering look. "I can't really say. I'm not even a Warden yet myself, really. If you have an interest you can speak with Duncan, though I can't promise you anything. It's not exactly a life many would choose willingly."

"I know that, but to think I could even be considered…"

"I thought you and your Commander were meeting about strategy with my father and Arl Howe. What're you doing here?" Peter asked. Did he sound too suspicious? Maybe. Was he suspicious? Definitely.

But Edmund just shrugged. "Oh sure, I'm sure they're talking strategy and battle plans still. But seeing as that's not really a conversation I can contribute much to, Duncan told Liri and I to get some dinner and some rest. I think Aothor stayed with them though, which kind of makes sense, considering his background…" He trailed off, eyes fixated on Lady, who'd come to stand by Peter's side. "Oh, God. Mabari are so much bigger in real life than I thought they would be."

"You've never seen one before?" Peter asked. Was he foreign? Even if mabari were rare, most Ferelden folk had at least seen one before. A possibly foreign element with possibly ill intent in his home… there were just too many possibilities.

"Well, yeah. Not like they let us keep pets in the Circle, you know?" Peter tried to hold in his surprise. A mage. He didn't know if that was better, or worse. Dairon didn't bother holding it in and just gaped openly at the Warden Recruit. "What's his name?"

"Her name's Lady." He watched the mage carefully. He could just be endearing himself to Lady in a scheme to make himself seem harmless. Peter wouldn't let his guard down. He couldn't afford to doubt his intuition.

"Hm, okay, that's different," said Edmund, holding out his hand for Lady to sniff. Unlike how she'd been enthusiastic to meet Iona, she was more hesitant with the mage, only investigating briefly before turning and sitting at Peter's side.

"What's different?"

"What?" Edmund asked, like he didn't even realize he'd said that last bit out loud.

"What?"

"Never mind. Anyway, given the timing of everything, I'd guess Duncan and the others are done by now, and I'd better go make sure Liri doesn't try to steal precious family heirlooms," Edmund said. "Dairon, thanks for all your help, it really makes things easier for me. Lord Cousland, I expect I'll see you fairly soon. Lady," Edmund paused, giving the mabari a heavy look. "look after them." Lady boofed, tail suddenly wagging. If Peter didn't know what the mage was talking about, at least she did. Edmund bowed shortly to each of them before leaving the library.

Peter turned to Dairon. "What did you help him with?"

"He told me that the Wardens are thinking of building a keep here in Ferelden, a sort of permanent headquarters. They don't have one anymore, not since they're returned from exile. Everyone knows that Highever is one of the most defensible building in Ferelden, so he wanted to know if there were any blueprints of the building he could look at for a reference."

Peter stilled, looking at Dairon in disbelief. "You didn't… oh Maker, tell me you didn't."

Dairon just shrugged, oblivious to the panic in his voice. "I mean, I helped him find the blueprints of the castle. A bit old, buried under a couple tomes about Nevarran trade agreements, but mostly accurate and in good condition. Don't worry, didn't let him take it. I put it right back in alphabetical order after he was done taking notes." Dairon gestured to the shelf where said blueprint resided.

If he didn't have justifiable reason to be suspicious before, he certainly did now. He just happened to want to see blueprints and maps of Highever castle? Sounds like a cover for a quick way to learn the ins and outs of a building. This could be bad.

"Dairon, you're beautiful, but you're a bit dense."

"I'm not—wait, did you just say I'm beautiful?"

Peter turned away, already half across the room, snapping his fingers to call Lady to heel. He stepped into the hall, and the mage was already nowhere in sight. No matter. He needed to bring his concerns directly to his father.

The great hall was empty, save for some guards on duty and servants cleaning up. With nowhere better the check, he went to find Fergus.

His brother was in his room, along with his wife and Oren.

"Ah, now here's my little brother to see me off. Now, dry your eyes love, and wish me well."

Fear for Fergus was evident in Oriana's eyes, and Oren led onto Fergus's arm tightly. "Don't you worry; Fergus is too strong to loose to some measly darkspawn," Peter said, putting his concerns about the mage on the back burner for the moment.

"He is as mortal as anyone, despite his refusal to believe it," Oriana said.

"Now love, no need to be so grim. I do wish you could come, Pup. It'll be tiring killing all those darkspawn by myself." Fergus aimed a punch at his shoulder. All those unarmed combat practices must have been paying off, because he managed to block it.

"Surely your father would not place both his heirs in danger."

"I've been hearing Mother and Father arguing about it for days. It's really too bad; I could have used you at my side." His brother did genuinely sound regretful. It was good to know that at least Fergus was on his side about the whole thing.

"Fergus, about the Wardens in the castle—"

"Wardens? Were they riding griffons?" Oren asked, cutting him short.

"Don't interrupt, Oren. Griffon only exist in stories now," chided Oriana.

"I'd heard there were some here. Did they say why they've come?"

"They say they're here to recruit, but—"

"Is that so?" Fergus mused, also cutting him off. "If I were a Warden, I'd have my eye on you, Peter. Not that Father would ever allow it."

"Not that I would want it, either. I—"

"If it's any consolation, I'm sure I'll freeze in the southern rains and be completely jealous of you here, warm and safe," Fergus laughed. Cutting him off. Again. Was interruption a family trait or something?

"I am positively thrilled that you will be so miserable, husband."

"Fergus, I have a message from Father," Peter said, and that seemed to finally get their attention. "He wants you to take the troops and leave without him. Tonight. Also I need to talk to you and him about—"

"So the Arl's men are delayed!" At this point, the interrupting was just unnecessary and also rude. "You'd think they're all walking backwards, at this rate. I'd better get underway. So many darkspawn to behead, so little time!" Fergus stooped and picked up his pack, slinging it over his shoulder and turning to kiss his wife. "I'll see you soon, my love."

"I would hope, dear boy, that you planned to wait for us before taking your leave."

Peter couldn't help but jolt slightly at the sound of his father's voice from behind him, and he turned to see both Father and Mother enter the room.

Mother took Fergus's face in her hands and kissed his cheek. "Be well, my son. I will pray for your safety every day you are gone."

"I keep telling you, no darkspawn could ever best me!"

"Maker sustain and preserve us all. Watch over our sons, husbands, and fathers, and bring them safely back to us."

"And bring us some ale and wenches, while you're at it! Er, for the men, of course."

Peter couldn't help but laugh as Fergus and Father then tried to explain the term "wench" to the six-year-old, much to Mother and Oriana's exasperation.

"I'll miss you, Mother dear. You'll take care of her, Pete, won't you?"

"Mother can handle herself. Always has." She was the Seawolf for a reason, and age had hardly dampened her wit and ferocity.

"True enough. They should be sending her, not me. She could scold those darkspawn right back into the Deep Roads," said Fergus.

"Well, I'm glad you find this so funny." From her own tone, Mother did not equally see the humor in the situation.

"Enough, enough. Pup, you'll want to get an early night. You've much to do tomorrow."

"Of course. I need a word with you first, Father."

"No, there will be no last-second change of heart regarding your participation in the battle, or lack thereof." Mother added without even a beat.

"It's not about that, I sweat it! Father, please." he nodded after a moment and followed him into the hall. "How much do you trust the Wardens?"

"I know Duncan to be a good man of sound judgement. The other Wardens I've met have been honorable warriors. Why do you ask? You haven't gotten it into your head that you want to be one, do you? Because the answer is resoundingly no."

"What? I—no. No, I don't want to be a Warden."

Father breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "Good, because I'd never hear the end of it from your mother if you did."

"I'm actually worried about something. You and Mother have always told me to trust my intuition, right? And I just… I think Recruit Amell is planning something. Something bad, here, tonight."

"That's a very serious accusation. What brought this on?" Fergus crossed his arms intently, transitioning from Father to Teyrn in an instant.

"A few things. The biggest one is gut feeling. Then just a short while ago he was in the library looking at blueprints and maps of the castle. Apparently he said it was something to do with wanting to build a Warden fortress modeled after Highever, but that reeks of bullshit to me."

The Teyrn paused, considering. "It could be a simple misunderstanding. I'll talk to Duncan. He at least, I know to be trustworthy, but it's true that we know nothing of the recruits. But I'd like to know—what do you intend to do about it?"

Peter blinked, uncertain of what he meant. He'd reported his concerns to the Teyrn. Wasn't that it? No. That wasn't it at all. If he was going to be in charge while his family was away, he needed to be able to handle situations by himself. "Recruit Amell is a mage, which makes him infinitely more dangerous if it does turn out that he's an enemy. I'll call for a templar or two to come to the castle—tonight, if possible. He'll need to be monitored while he's here. And if it turns out that it was all a misunderstanding, we'll leave him alone and let them all go on their way."

The Teyrn nodded. "An excellent plan. I'll have Ser Gilmore summon the templar, you need to head straight to bed. I expect you'll be even busier than we expected, and you'll need your rest."

"Of course. Thank you Father, and… Maker watch over you."

"May He watch over us all."


	9. A Burning Castle (Part 3)

"How do you feel about kidnapping?"

Liri blinked up at Edmund, concerned about where this line of questioning was headed, and also just unsure of how to answer.

"_I feel like that's a really loaded question." _Had she kidnapped people before? Yeah, sure. Comes with the territory. Was she expecting to have to kidnap someone since joining the Wardens? No, not really. _"What's this about? Lately you've been jumpier than flees on a nug. Afraid someone's gonna whisk you away?"_

They were completely alone in the room, Aothor hadn't even come back—still out being big and important with Duncan and the human lord, probably—but still, Edmund looked about the chamber uneasily. "If only it were that simple. Look… do you trust me?"

Okay, the kidnapping thing was nothing compared to how loaded that particular was. She trusted him in a fight, she trusted that he was at least as bought into this Warden thing as she was. But did she actually trust him? She didn't hardly know him. And if carta life had instilled anything in her, it was that trust was something hard won and exchanged away at the earliest convenience.

Edmund sighed at her silence, shoulders sagging. "Fair enough. Look, even if you don't trust me, I'm going to decide to trust you. Because I can't do this alone." Edmund rustled in his pack for a moment before procuring a leather-bound journal. He opened the book before her, showing a rough sketch of what looked like the very castle they were in. "I need you to help me kidnap the Teyrn's daughter-in-law and grandson."

Liri stared at him. _"Better hurry with the punchline, magic boy, 'cause so far this joke isn't funny."/em_

"This is the last thing I'd joke about." Edmund pointed to a position on the map. "There's a secret exit here in the larder somewhere. Only ones who know about it are the family and some of the heads of staff. And out here," He flipped a page, this one showing the castle as a whole in relation to the surrounding town and forest. "There's a hunting lodge out here in the woods, a few miles from the keep. We need to get Oren and Oriana out through the secret exit and to that lodge."

"_Are you crazy? I know the Wardens are desperate for recruits and all, but kidnapping the Teyrn's family members to blackmail him into letting us conscript his son? Really? I mean, it would work, of course, but I don't know if that's really the Warden's style."_

"This isn't about recruiting. This about saving a little boy and his mother from a bloody end. And this doesn't really have anything to do with the Wardens. It's just me."

Liri leaned forward, inspecting Edmund carefully. _"If I'm gonna help you with this you're gonna need to give me more than that. Spill it."_

"You remember Arl Howe, from earlier? Greasy little bastard?"

"_I'd have gone for oily, but that fits too. What's this got to do with him?"_

"He delayed his men intentionally. Tonight he's going to have them slip into the castle to kill the Couslands in their sleep. Probably us too, now that we're here. I don't know exactly when the attack's supposed to begin, but I'd wager we don't have much time."

"_Oh. Damn. Sounds like he'd make for a great deshyr,"/em _Liri said, at a loss for anything else. _"Are you sure? I've been in this place just as long as you have and I haven't seen anything to indicate that,"_

"Known for a while—someone from Denerim's court has been influencing the Circle, trying to start an uprising—and this is most certainly connected." Edmund stood, beginning to pace the room. "Not directly to Howe, but he's got allies involved. This goes deeper than just one man vying for power."

"_Have you told Duncan about this?" _She looked at him, then shook her head. Of course he hadn't. _"And I'm guessing just alerting the guards isn't gonna work."_

"No. It'll be my word against the Arl's. Howe's an old family friend, and people are suspicious of mages as a default. I've already gotten plenty of looks just by existing here."

"_Fine. So we get momma and her boy out of harms way. Then what?" _Liri asked, then turned and began rummaging through her own packs. In spite of the guard that had been shadowing her since her arrival, she'd successfully managed to nick two sets of silver tableware and one set of gold cufflinks. Beneath that she found her ingredients.

If she was going to be kidnapping these people, she was gonna do it her way. She measured the ingredients as Edmund explained the rest of her plan, trying to figure out how different the correct dosage would be for humans as opposed to the dwarves she was used to.

"After we get them to the lodge, one of us will need to stay behind with them to protect them, just in case, and the other will need to sneak back into the castle through the same passage. Hopefully by then we'll be able to meet the Teyrn, Teyrna, and Peter there with Duncan and Aothor, and we can see to any injuries and then get out together from there and rendezvous at the lodge."

"_What makes you think the others will be able to meet us by the exit? We haven't told anyone else about this plan." _

"Either they meet us there, or they don't, and in that case we go look for them. Simple as that."

Liri nodded, capping the mixture she'd been working on and storing it in her pocket along with handkerchiefs. _"What about the castle staff, what's the plan for them?" _She asked. She folded her arms at Edmund's lack of response, glaring him down. _"What, are they not important enough to be saved? Gonna let them die because they don't have any fancy titles?"_

"It's not that—"

"_Isn't it, though?" _She shook her head._ "Thought you might be different than the others. Guess I was wrong."_

"Liri, listen to me!" Edmund said, voice raising slightly. He took a slow breath before resuming again in hushed tones. "I want to save everyone. I do. But that isn't going to be possible. We're low on options, and we're running out of time. I don't even know if my plans to get the Couslands out is going to work. They could still die for all I know. Hell, we could all die tonight. But this is the only plan I have."

He was desperate. He said that this was connected to something bigger—and whatever that something was, it was eating him up inside.

Liri didn't like this plan. There were so many variables it counted on to even have a chance of working, and all for what, so save a handful of human nobles? If there was an attack coming, and they knew about it, they should just cut and run while they had the chance. Wardens weren't supposed to get involved in political stuff anyways, right?

Sod it all. _"Fine. I'm in. Let's go kidnap some nobles."_

Edmund breathed a heavy sigh of relief, smiling slightly. "Thank you. There's no way I could do this by myself."

"_Yeah, yeah, whatever. I just figure there are worse things than having a bunch of nobles who owe me their lives. You owe me big time, too."_

"Anything, anytime. Just let me know." Edmund turned towards the door, leading out into the hall. _"So, you do actually have an idea for how to get them out of here without anyone noticing, right? Because I've never really done this kind of thing before." _He began signing once they were walking down the hall so as not to risk whispers being overheard.

"_Don't worry, they're just gonna take a nice little nap. Easy as pie," _she said, showing him the vial of sedative. They should already be asleep, but this would put them all the way under for a few hours. Probably. She didn't know what the proper dosage difference should be for a human, let alone a human kid, so there was a certain amount of guesswork in play. It'd be fine. Probably.

As far as security went, they actually didn't run into any Cousland guards. Guess the Teyrn wasn't kidding when he said only a few were staying behind in the castle. Like this, they were basically asking for someone to try and attack them, holding up a big red flag reading "We're vulnerable, strike now!" written across it. They actually passed a guardroom full of men thick in a game of cards.

All was quiet as they approached the family's wing.

"_Which rooms?"_

Edmund paused a moment to reference the map in his journal before pointing to the room in question. Liri eased the door open. A single candle was lit in the room—a nightlight for the little boy sleeping in the bed against the wall. Beside him, slumped in the armchair with a storybook on her lap, was a woman Liri could only presume to be the mother. Must have fallen asleep reading to the little guy.

She crept to the bedside, Edmund moving along behind her. She applied the sedative to the handkerchief and pressed it to the boys sleeping form and waited for him to breathe in enough of it before moving and doing the same to his mother.

"_All set. So far, so good," _she said, then lifted the kid into her arms.

"_Don't jinx it, man." _Edmund struggled briefly with the limp form, but managed to get her slung across both his shoulders in a shepherds carry. Neither of the kidnapping victims stirred. "How long did you say this was supposed to last?"

"_I didn't. Now let's go."_

Edmund lead the way with the map. If possible, the castle seemed even quieter before, silence hanging ominously.

They passed a small wheeled cart full of rubbish, likely left behind by some maid who went to bed some hours ago. It was likely midnight by now with most of the residents asleep.

Edmund tipped the cart to empty it's contents and set his kidnap victim inside. Liri grinned and set the kid next to his mother. It was crammed, but they both fit. Easier than carrying them around.

Liri chuckled with dark humor. _"Always knew that nobles were garbage."_

Edmund rolled his eyes, continuing down the hall with the cart pushed in front of him. Liri cringed—it had a squeaky wheel. That could give them away.

"What in the Maker's name…?"

Liri spun around, weapons in her hands. A woman in armor stood at the end of the hall, staring at them with confusion and disbelief. A glance up at Edmund showed grim recognition on his face.

"Templar." He muttered, staff ready in his hand.

Sod. This… this was definitely bad.

The templar's expression shifted to stoic ferocity as she put together the pieces of the scene in front of her. "Mage. In the name of the Maker and his bride Andraste, lay down your arms and surrender."

"Liri, get to the exit. I'll buy us some time." Edmund stepped forwards, staff glowing.

"That's… Lady Oriana! You will not have them for your foul magic, mage." The templar advanced down the hall, the ring of metal breaking the silence of the hall as she drew her sword.

There was only one. They could take her down together and keep going. Liri stepped forwards, but Edmund pushed her back towards the cart, pressing his journal with the map into her hands. "Go! We're running out of time."

Liri looked at the slumbering figures in the cart. If everything Edmund had said was accurate, the attack could begin at any minute.

The air behind her crackled with energy as Liri turned and pushed the cart down the hall towards the kitchens as fast as she could, not even bothering to conceal her presence. She would come back for Edmund. Whether she trusted him or not, they were both Wardens now, and she should have his back.

For now she had to carry out the plan as best she could.

Which began falling apart again almost immediately.

The kitchens weren't empty. An old woman, probably the cook, was still awake and prepping meals. She looked up upon Liri's entrance, and briefly they both froze, eyes locked.

The cook looked at Liri, looked at the bodies in the cart, and began screaming bloody murder.

She didn't have time with this. Liri ran at the woman, who raised a rolling pin in defense, swinging wildly. Liri easily dodged her clumsy blows and kicked her legs out from under her, dropping her low enough for Liri to club the back of her head with the flat of her weapon, knocking her out. The old woman collapsed, falling against the wall. She'd be fine. Probably.

Between that and the distant sounds of Edmund's fight against the templar, there was no way anyone in the vicinity was still asleep anymore.

Liri dragged the cart into the larder. There was supposed to be an exit here, so where was it? If she was building a secret exit out of a castle, where would she put it?

She moved about a dozen crates of cabbage and several shelves of spices before she finally found the secret door behind the massive stack of cheese. How very Ferelden.

The commotion in the castle grew hectic as she pulled the door closed behind her and disappeared with her kidnapping victims down the secret passageway. It sounded like fighting. So either Edmund got the Cousland guards called on him, or Arl Howe's men were beginning their assault. She didn't know which would be worse.

With a moment to breathe she flipped through Edmund's journal. Either his handwriting was absolutely abysmal, or he was writing in an entirely different language. He was a mage, maybe they had some kind of secret mage language for all she knew. She found the map she was looking for, showing the location of the hunting lodge. Stowing it in her bag with the rest of her things she continued down the long and winding passage until she reached the exit.

Men were beginning to assemble around the castle, surrounding it. Maneuvering with the cart over uneven ground while trying to remain undetected was difficult, but thankfully the soldiers didn't seem to know about this exit after all and were hardly paying any attention her direction.

She turned back before she reached the tree line and saw smoke rising from the castle.

—

"I understand your concern, Duncan," Teyrn Cousland said, refilling his cup of tea before resting back in his seat, "If this is a true Blight, we will most certainly need to call for aid. Ferelden simply doesn't have the might to stand against a true Archdemon alone."

"I am glad you can see the sense of it, Your Lordship," said Duncan. "Once you arrive in Ostagar, I would appreciate it if you could express this to King Cailan. Convincing him of the import would be beneficial."

"Your king doesn't take the Blight seriously, does he?" Aothor asked. He'd learned much from conversing with Duncan and the Teyrn. The political situation among the human kingdoms was precarious moment, and the inopportune timing of this Blight could be the last straw on many fronts. The intrigue was nothing compared to his experiences in Orzammar, but politics were politics, no matter the race.

Duncan rubbed his brow tiredly. "Many believe the Archdemons gone, the darkspawn a minor threat. King Cailan is eager to put them down, and open to believing the possibility that this could be a true Blight. But I simply fear he takes the situation too lightly."

"He has good counsel at his side," added Teyrn Cousland, "Teyrn Loghain is a strategist unlike any Ferelden has ever seen and ever an excellent counselor to King Cailan. I've the upmost confidence in our King and his advisor."

"Fair enough. Even we in Orzammar have heard of Teyrn Loghain's military exploits. I studied his strategies and tactics while training to be a commander," said Aothor.

The Teyrn gave him a surprised eye. "I'd not known you are a commander in Orzammar. It is an honor."

Aothor shook his head. "I was once. Now all I am is a Grey Warden."

Teyrn Cousland chuckled. "Said as if it were a small thing. Being a Grey Warden is surely something to be proud of, and I'm sure your military experience will be a great benefit to your order, even more so if Loghain's strategies are among those you studied."

"Thank you, Your Lordship."

"Duncan, I've a wonder, if you will indulge me," The Teyrn said. Duncan nodded for the man to continue. "You've already gotten a recruit from Highever. You took Ser Jory after that tournament not that long ago. Not only that, but you've acquired three more since then. So why come back here? Why come for Peter? And don't deny it, you and I both know that's who you have your eye on."

Duncan sighed heavily. "There are but a handful of Wardens in Ferelden. If this is a Blight, every Warden who stands it means another hundred darkspawn fallen, and a hundred Ferelden lives saved. Your son has the makings of a Warden—excellent training and education, combat prowess and potential to become a truly become a first rate warrior. Not only that, but I've heard of his innate intuition and leadership abilities. Is it any surprise why I would want someone like Peter?"

"Ah, on the subject of that intuition… what can you tell me of the mage amongst your recruits?"

"Edmund?" Aothor frowned, unsure why he was suddenly being brought up. "He seems a decent enough man. A bit jumpy, nervous in a fight, but I suppose that comes with being caged all his life and then suddenly let loose."

"He cares deeply for the people around him, and he has an uncanny knowledge about certain things. Whether that comes from a naturally observant nature, or something else… I couldn't say," said Duncan. "Why the sudden interest? Interested in stealing him as a court mage?"

All casual demeanor was gone from the Teyrn, replaced by intensity. "Of course not. He recently caught hold of that intuition of Peter's. My son suspects your mage may be involved in something nefarious. I trust your judgement enough that you wouldn't recruit a madman or murderer, Duncan, but Peter's intuition is rarely wrong."

"That is curious." Duncan said, resting back in his chair, "What exactly was it about Edmund that caused this?"

"If I recall correctly, something about the mage trying to get his hands on blueprints of Highever castle, and something about his demeanor towards my friend Howe."

"Then I've no idea what this could be about. I will speak to him, if you wish. I'm certain it's just a misunderstanding." Duncan rose from his chair, and Aothor took this as his que to do the same.

"Please do that. Hopefully this is something we can forget about come morning. Just as a precaution, Peter sent for a templar. Ser Lidea arrived but a short while ago. It's just in case, you understand."

Duncan frowned heavily. Clearly he didn't like the sound of that. "I do indeed. We should all turn in, it's nearly midnight."

"Maker, it's that time already? Feels like just a moment ago that Howe turned in. I'll likely regret not going to bed as early as him come morning when we're due to march, but I'll not regret conversing with you gentlemen. It's been a genuine pleasure." said the Teyrn.

Aothor, however, tuned out the conversation, and was focused on a sound coming down the hall. The clash of metal, an outcry, and the heavy footfalls of armored men.

Aothor grabbed his sword and shield from where they rested by the fireplace. "We're under attack!"

The door slammed open at his words and soldiers charged in, blades drawn. He rushed to meet them, blocking blows with his shield as Duncan took his weapons and joined the fray. The Teyrn was hardly idle, either—though unarmed and unarmored, he grabbed a decorative dagger off of it's display and engaged with the aggressors.

In the aftermath Aothor looked down at the corpses. "I recognize that insignia. These are Howe's men." He looked up at the humans to see both experiencing the same realization he was.

"I don't understand this." The Teyrn shook his head in disbelief, yet the reality was proof enough.

"Simple enough; it's betrayal. Careful, seems to be catching." Aothor kicked aside a dead man and moved to the door, peering out of it. "Clear for now, but I can hear more coming, and I don't think the Teyrn is the only target tonight."

Teyrn Cousland paled. "My family. I must get to them."

"Not just them. If you had something against the Grey Wardens, wouldn't this seem like the perfect opportunity to eliminate the Commander?" Aothor said with a heavy look towards Duncan.

"You believe this is an attack against us, as well," Duncan said, passing a proper sword to the Teyrn.

"Don't know. Maybe we're just in the way of who they want. Doesn't hurt to be on guard, though. For now I'll assume the worst."

"Aothor, go and find Edmund and Liri. I will help the Teyrn rescue his family."

"Yes, Commander."

—

There wasn't a templar at the castle in the games. Why was there a templar here now? Why couldn't one thing just go his way? Things had been working out so well, too. He should have known it was too good to be true.

Liri's steps and the squeaky cart disappeared down the hall while he and the templar continued staring each other down.

"Any chance you'll believe me if I say I'm not a crazy blood mage and actually just someone trying to help?" He asked, twirling his staff to channel some of his nervous energy. The templar scowled and began advancing towards him again. Edmund sighed. "Yeah, didn't think so."

He solidified the spell he'd been building, summoning a barrier right in front of her. The templar ran right into it, bouncing off of it comically but otherwise stood back up unharmed.

He was going to have to kill people eventually. It was unavoidable. Until now he'd destroyed some magical sentinels, giant spiders, and a handful of darkspawn. But to actually kill a person… even if they were a terrible evil person, he didn't know if he'd be able to when the time came, and that time was rushing upon him faster than he could prepare for it.

Edmund didn't wait for her to dispel the barrier, because that is certainly what she would do—he just turned and ran down the hall. He didn't know where he was running to other than just "away," but for now that was good enough for him. The templar would be forced to choose between pursuing him or going after Liri.

But honestly, she was a templar. He knew what she'd pick.

The heavy clanking of her armor indicated that she was hot on his heels. He flipped through different spells in his head, trying to remember something that would be useful. His legs carried him to the chapel, which was blessedly empty. From the distance he heard a woman screaming—was that Liri? Or someone else? Had the attack already started?

He couldn't do anything but hope that Liri had gotten out in time, and trust that Lady would alert Peter to the attackers like she did in the game. Aothor and Duncan should still be up with the Teyrn. With the extra layer of protection through Aothor, maybe the Teyrn wouldn't be severely injured. This could still work.

The templar stood on the other end of the chapel, caging him in. Edmund readied himself. All he had to do was cat-and-mouse until he lost her, then make for the larder. He could do this. He was in control.

He allowed her to approach. One step, then two. Again he released the spell he'd been building, binding her with Paralysis. She froze mid-step, and Edmund ran past her, out the door, and back down the hall.

The spell didn't hold long, and when it broke it broke into flames. Heat licked at his back and he turned, watching as the flames leapt through the air and latched onto the ornate tapestries and continued spreading upwards.

Shit.

He didn't even know why he was surprised anymore. Edmund watched, frozen in horror as the fire began to take hold of the structure.

The templar, scorched but largely unhurt, caught up to him, swinging her sword. Rather than striking him with steel, null energy slammed into him, causing him to reel, lungs suddenly empty of air.

"That's enough of your tricks, mage." She sneered, reaching for him.

Fight or flight kicked in, and on sheer adrenalin alone he forced himself to run, every part of his body screaming out in protest. He tried to cast—a barrier, paralysis, fire, anything—but nothing happened.

Charging down the hall opposite came a squadron of men in armor. Howe's men. The attack had finally begun, and he couldn't access his magic, and the castle was burning.

—

"Darling, you're hurt!"

"It's just a scratch. It'll heal." Mother's gentle hands overed anxiously over the fresh wound marking Peter's face and neck. The flail that grazed him lie on the floor now alongside the soldier who'd swung it. Peter shuddered. If he'd been half a second slower, it would have caved in his face. As it was, at worst he'd have a nasty scar. "What's important is that you're fine."

"They never got though my door, thanks to you. A scream woke me up, and then there was noise and men in the hall, so I barred the door. Did you see their shields? Those are Howe's men! Why would they attack us?"

Peter's head spun, looking down at their assailants. Lady sniffed their corpses suspiciously, fur more red than white with their blood. The mage. He'd been so certain the mage was up to something. Or maybe the mage was part of this, in league with Howe. How did he miss this? How did any of them miss this?

"He's betrayed Father. He's attacking while our troops are gone."

"You don't think Howe's men were delayed… on purpose?" The pieces game together and Mother's expression soured with rage. "That bastard! I'll cut his lying throat myself!"

Peter clenched his jaw. "Not if I get there first."

"Have you seen your father? He never came to bed. We must find him!"

Peter was already moving, turning towards the hall that lead away from the family wing. "It sounds like there's more fighting downstairs. We'll have to fight our way to him." He turned back to Mother. "Will you be alright to fight?" He asked, eyeing the bow in her hand and quiver at her hip. "It's been a long time since—"

"I am no Orlesian wallflower! I've a weapon, and I'll use it to kill every one of those murderous thugs if I have to."

Peter nodded, turning to the door to Oren's room. They'd have to fight their way out while protecting him, but they would make do—

All the ferocity in his heart died at the sight of the empty room, replaced with panic. Peter rushed to the bed, checking under the sheets, looking under the bed, throwing open the wardrobe. Oren was nowhere to be found.

"No!" Mother cried out from the doorway of the room. "My little Oren! How could they! Howe must mean to use him as a hostage." Peter turned from the room, running to Oriana and Fergus's. Maybe Oren had hidden with her? Mother joined him, searching for Oriana and Oren. "They're both gone. I can't believe it," she said, voice barely a whisper.

"I'll make them pay." Peter tightened his grip on his great axe. Howe would pay—and the price would be blood. By the Maker, if a hair on Oren's head was harmed…

"Let's go. If Howe is taking hostages, we might be able to save them yet."

"Right. We need to hurry." Peter said, leading the way away from the wing. The objective was blessedly simple—find Father, Oren, and Oriana, and kill anyone who got in their way.

Two men blocked their path, but only for so long. Peter rushed them with Lady at his side. He cleaved into the first man's shoulder, and before the second could get a blow in Lady leapt upon him, teeth clamping around his throat.

"Can you hear the fighting? Howe's men must be everywhere."

"There's smoke in the air," Peter said, covering his mouth with his hand. "They've set fire to the building. This is madness!"

"The servants passage leads out from the larder. But we must try and find your father and the others first. Knowing him, I would bet he's holding the front gates. He must be there."

"We can't just let Howe win like this!"

"Listen, darling, we haven't much time," said Mother, putting a hand on his shoulder to keep him from moving on. "If we can't find the others, you must get out of here. Without you and Fergus, the entire Cousland line dies here. Howe's men are already inside, so they must control the castle. You must use the servant's entry to escape. Do. You. Hear. Me?" The emphasis in her words made it clear that there would be no debating this.

He knew Mother, the most stubborn person in Ferelden. But he was her son, and he was just like her. "I want Howe to pay for what he's done. I want him dead."

"Then survive and visit vengeance upon him! We cannot waste a moment longer."

Just as they turned to move, a servant ran by, face pale and drawers soiled. "The castle is under attack! I'm getting out of here."

"Don't be a coward! Stand and fight! Defend your home!" Peter called out. "We stand a better chance when we fight together."

Something like hope filled the servant's eyes. "Y-Yes mi'lord. As you say, mi'lord!" The servant took a blade from a fallen soldier, new resolve in his posture.

"What is your name, good man?" Peter asked, leading the group again down the hall.

"C-craig, my lord. I work in the kennels as the kennel master's assistant."

"Ah, thought I recognized you. The kennel master, is he well?"

Craig hesitated long enough for Peter to have his answer before it was spoken. "He… he took an arrow through the neck, sir."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that," Peter said, eyes downcast. "At least it was quick."

"Dunno if any of the dogs made it. I ran. Should have turned them loose, at least. I'm sorry mi'lord, I failed my duty."

"It's forgiven, Craig. You're standing with us now, and that's what counts." Peter hefted his weapon. "Here they come!"

Mothers arrows reached Howe's men before he did, this time, the first two fallen like puppets cut from strings. The rest were dispatched with similar speed as before, with Craig even contributing to the fight by finishing a man Lady managed to pin down.

The smoke was beginning to accumulate in the hall, and rounding a corner he could see the flames slowly creeping their direction from the chapel. Burning the chapel—was nothing sacred to Howe?

They took a different hall to the main chamber, not wanting to risk the flames and smoke. The sounds of combat could be heard even from the hall outside, and Peter opened the door to find chaos. A line of Cousland guards held against an onslaught of Howe's men, easily outnumbered three to one. In the center of it all was Ser Gilmore, and at his side, Recruit Aothor.

Mother's arrows flew overhead as he charged forward, swinging wide and cleaving off two heads with a single blow. Lady howled and snarled, charging into the enemy line with teeth bared. The line broke, and the Cousland forced rushed forwards, regaining ground as the odds evened out.

No sooner had the final man fallen than Ser Gilmore began barking orders to his men. "Go! Man the gate! Keep those bastards out as long as you can!" Guardsmen rushed to obey his words, Craig even following suit. Gilmore turned to them, visibly relieved. "Your Ladyship! My lord! You're both alive! I—Maker, Peter, you're hurt."

"It's fine. Just a scratch, I'll be fine in no time. What's the situation?"

"As you say. The situation is dire. We're painfully outnumbered, the castle is surrounded, and that gate won't hold long. I'd thought for sure that men had gotten though our line."

"They did get through!"

"They took Oriana and Oren to Maker knows where… I can scarcely even think…" Mother shuddered, trying to shake away the thought. "Are you injured, Ser Gilmore?"

"Don't worry about me, Your Ladyship. I'd be dead by now surely if now for Recruit Aothor here. If you've another way out of the castle, use it quickly!"

"My Father—have you seen him?"

"He was with Duncan. Took a nasty wound. Sodding archers. Duncan said he'd take him somewhere safe then continue to search for you lot. Saw them heading towards the kitchens," said Recruit Aothor. "Any chance either of you has seen my fellow recruits, is there?"

"No. We haven't seen them anywhere."

Aothor rubbed his brow tiredly. "I'd like to think that Howe's goons wouldn't be able to do them in, but sod it, there are so many of them. If it's all the same, I'll go with you two. Might be able to find Duncan, at least."

"And Oren, and Oriana?" Mother asked, hands clenched. "Their rooms were empty. I fear the worst."

"I… no, Your Ladyship. No one has seen them. If they are not with you, I could only assume that the soldiers removed them as hostages… but there's been no offer of parley. No terms, do demands, nothing. Only slaughter."

"If that's the case… no, I can't stand to think of it. I won't." Mother steeled herself. "Bless you. Maker watch over you, Ser Gilmore!"

"Maker watch over us all."

Peter and Gilmore shared a look there, and understanding that this could well be the last they ever saw of each other. The painful knife in Peter's heart twisted ever deeper. "Don't die. That's an order."

A small smile pulled at Gilmore's face, but the sadness lingered in his eyes. "As my lord commands." He went to assist with fortifying the gates, moving furniture and building a barricade.

More smoke filled the hall when they exited. At this rate, there might not be anything left of Highever for Howe to have. He wasn't sure if that was better, or worse.

A crack and subsequent crash sounded in the distance. Support beams were burning away, causing pieces of the castle to fall in on itself. If they weren't quick enough, they could be buried.

Nan lay unmoving in the corner of the kitchen. Peter couldn't bring himself to look at her. She was always there, forever a presence in his life, and now…

He kept moving to the larder. He had to keep moving.

Father was there. Father was there and he was alive. Peter could have cried from the relief he felt if it weren't for the blood soaking his father's form. "There… you both are."

"Bryce!" Mother raced forwards and fell at his side, Peter only a heartbeat behind.

"I was… wondering when you would… get here."

"Maker's blood, what's happening? You're bleeding!" Mother said, frantically examining the wound. An arrow protruded out of his chest, not in his heart, but dangerously near. A stab wound punctured his gut, small, but bleeding still.

"Howe's men… found me first. Almost… did me in right there." Father's breathing was ragged, and uneven. "I fear a lung has be punctured… it'll deflate once the arrow is removed, and then…" He coughed, spitting blood onto Mother's increasingly panicked face.

"I haven't seen Duncan since I parted from the two of you. Where is he?" Aothor asked, kneeling beside them.

"Duncan brought me here. He left… to find the rest of you."

"And he left you lying in your own blood? We must get you out of here!"

"I…" Father shook his head. "I don't think I'll survive the standing."

"Then I'll carry you out, drag you if I have to." Peter shifted, trying to get a hold of Father to lift him, but Father leaned away.

"Only if you're willing to leave pieces of me behind, pup."

"Bryce! This is no time for jokes. We won't leave you here!" Mother placed her hand, wet with his blood, on his face, leaning into him. "Once Howe's men breath through the gate, they will find us. We must go!"

"Someone… must reach Fergus… warn him… tell him what has happened."

"You can tell him yourself, Father."

"I… wish I could…" Father gasped, sharply then let out a long groan of pain. Cold sweat collected at his brow as his skin continued to pale.

"Bryce, no. The passage is right here. We can flee together, find you healing magic!" Mother turned to Recruit Aothor, a plead in her eyes. "You Wardens have a mage, yes? We can have him heal Bryce."

"Perhaps. But Edmund is still in the castle somewhere, if he's even still alive." Aothor said, leaning in closer to inspect Father. "And unless we get him healing magic within the next ten minutes, I'd say there won't be anything we can do."

"And the castle is surrounded… I cannot make it."

"I'm afraid the Teyrn is correct." Peter jolted at the sudden voice behind him, whipping his head around to find Duncan entering the larder, blades bloody. "Arl Howe's men have not yet discovered this exit, but they surround the castle. Getting past will be difficult."

"You… are Duncan, then? Commander of the Grey Wardens?"

"Yes, Your Ladyship. The Teyrn and I tried to reach you sooner. I am glad you found your way here safetly."

"My Peter helped me get here, Maker be praised."

As Duncan's eyes fell on him Peter felt vastly uncomfortable, like a piece of meat being sized up before purchase in the market. "I am not surprised. His skill lives up to his reputation, it would seem."

"Duncan. Can you help me do something about Arl Howe?" Grey Wardens were heroes. They stood for justice. Surely Duncan would—

"Not here. There are too many men, and they seem as willing to kill me, as they are all of you. Flight is the only option."

Or maybe not.

"Whatever is to be done now, it must be quick!" Mother said. Sounds of chaos were drawing ever closer to their location. "They are coming!"

"Duncan… you are under no obligation to me, but I beg you… take my wife and son to safety!" The rattling of Fathers breath was audible now, words shaking like leaves in the wind.

"I will, Your Lordship. But… I fear I must ask for something in return."

"Anything!"

"What is happening here pales in comparison to the evil now loose in this world." Duncan's gaze fell on him again, and the sensation from before only strengthened. "I came to this castle seeking a recruit. The darkspawn threat demands that I leave with one—even more so if Edmund and Liri are lost to Howe's men."

Peter looked to Father. No. No, surely not.

"I… I understand."

"But what if something has happened to Fergus?" This wasn't right. His place was with his family, with Highever. Not some old order of monster hunters.

"The king will see justice done. The Grey Wardens, however, must face the darkspawn above all else," said Duncan.

Hang the king's justice. Peter wanted to see to it himself. As a Cousland.

"He is… right, pup."

Duncan nodded grimly. "I will take the Teyrna and Peter to Ostagar to tell Fergus and the king what happened. Then, your son joins the Grey Wardens."

"So long as justice comes to Howe… I agree," said Father.

"Then I offer you a place within the Grey Wardens. Fight with us."

"No. My duty is to take vengeance on Arl Howe for my family. I must make him pay for what he has done!" This was wrong. For this to be forced on him. He didn't feel like he was being given any choice in the matter at all.

Duncan's gaze was heavy. "We will inform the king, and he will punish Howe. I am sorry, but a Grey Warden's duties take precedence even over vengeance."

"Howe thinks he'll use the chaos to… advance himself. Make him wrong, pup. See that justice is done!" Lady whimpered, pacing near and licking Father's face. He chuckled softly, either unwilling or simply unable to turn himself away from her slobbery kisses. "I'll miss you too, Lady girl. Take good care of my boy. You always do." Father's hand, slick with blood, took his own. "Our family… always does our duty first. The darkspawn must be defeated. You must go. For your own sake, and for Ferelden's."

Peter stilled, the rage inside him quieting in that moment. In all his life, he'd never heard Father give up, never seen him totally defeated. To see it now…

Peter blinked back the tears stinging his eyes. "I will, Father. For you." Not for Duncan, or for the Wardens, or their cause. Not for Highever or Ferelden. For Father.

Duncan didn't even give him a moment, rising immediately to his feet and pulling him up alongside. Bastard couldn't even let him have a final, proper goodbye with the only family he had left.

"Bryce, are you… sure?" Mother asked, looking intently at her husband.

"Our son will not die of Howe's treachery. He will live, and make his mark on the world."

Mother nodded. "Darling, go with Duncan. You have a better chance to escape without me." Peter felt his heart stop. Was she absolutely insane? She would stay and die?

"Eleanor…"

"Hush. I'll kill every bastard that comes through that door to buy them time. But I won't abandon you."

"No. No, you can't stay. We can find another way. We can fight." Peter reached out desperately for Mother, but she pushed him away.

"So we all die? No. Your place is now with the Grey Wardens. Mine is with your father. At his side, to death and beyond."

"I'm… so sorry it's come to this, my love…"

"Shh… we had a good life and did all we could. It's up to our children, now."

"Then… go, pup. Warn your brother. And know we love you both. You do us proud."

The dwarf lead the way down the servant's passage. Peter let himself be pulled along by Duncan, unable to make his legs carry him out, staring back at his parents until they faded from sight.

In the distance he heard the sound of the gates breaking. Steeling himself he turned, regained mastery over his legs, and forced himself to run.

The castle continued to burn, nearly a quarter consumed by flame. The darkness of night was illuminated by the torch of his home. More of Howe's men awaited them beyond the door at the end of the passage. Peter let the pain carry him through the encounter, checking out his head and letting his body react to the natural flow of the battle.

He wasn't sure how they'd gotten past the men guarding that side of the castle, but he knew that despite those men being dead more would surely be on their tail in a matter of moments. He forced himself to re-engage as they broke through the tree line, taking lead of their desperate group of three.

"There's a hunting lodge ahead. It's deep in the woods, by a small stream. We can stop there for a moment before… before we go."

"Howe's men gonna find us there?" Aothor asked, following him into the thick of the brush.

"Not for a while, at least. None of them would know about it's existence, and it's plenty remote." He spent a lot of time in that lodge as a boy, with Fergus and Father. Mother would only occasionally join them on hunts, but whenever she did she shamed them all with her pinpoint accuracy with a bow.

Fergus always talked about taking Oren hunting once he got old enough for Oriana to allow it. Talked about taking Peter and his sons once he had them and re-living the good old days, hunting down a boar or stag together and…

Peter pushed the thought away, swallowing heavily and concentrating on the immediate goal in front of him.

"Duncan… do you really think Edmund and Liri didn't make it?" Aothor asked softly.

"I could not find them anywhere in the castle. Either they got out before we did, or they were taken by either fire or foes." Duncan's voice was weary.

Peter looked over his shoulder. "And you gave up? You're just leaving them behind to die?"

"I chose to trust in my recruits resourcefulness and adaptability. I still trust it. I did not find their bodies, so I will not yet believe they are dead. I had to make a choice. I could have either remained and continued to search, or I could aid you and your family."

"Right. And that turned out so well."

"I will also remind you that you brought a templar to the castle." There was a terribly unsubtle accusation in his voice. "Because of my mage. And since that templar came to the castle, no one has seen said mage. I am not completely unconvinced such a thing is unrelated."

"Oh, so is that why you decided to recruit me?" Peter bit out, turning back and facing Duncan. "Some kind of cruel and twisted punishment for me maybe getting your mage caught by Chantry authorities?"

"I recruited you because you were needed. Because the Blight threatens not just Ferelden, but all of Thedas. This goes beyond you and your desire for vengeance for your family, or any feelings I may have about the loss of my other recruits. Above all else, stopping the Blight comes first." Duncan's voice carried an authority that gave Peter pause, making him even step back a bit. "You are angry. You are in pain. But do not let it master you."

"Shh!" Aothor caught their attention, focusing on something in the underbrush. They all readied their weapons. Aothor stepped forward, but Lady was a step ahead of him, sticking her face into a bush and sniffing loudly.

A hack of protest erupted from said bush, or rather from the person inside it. Emerging slowly from the bush was the dwarven woman.

"Sod it all, you nearly gave me a heart attack." Aothor huffed, but there was relief in his eyes. "You made it out. I can't believe it."

"Liri, is Edmund with you?"

Liri shook her head. She must have said something Peter didn't hear, because the Wardens certainly reacted.

They turned back, looking in the direction of the castle. "Maybe he found a way," Aothor said.

"If the Maker wills it. But we cannot delay. If he does not find his way to us by morning, we will have to move on."

"What's happened?" Peter asked.

"Apparently your templar found him. Last Liri saw, they were fighting in the halls near the larder." Duncan said, still looking with unease back towards the castle. "If he had died we would have seen his body there when we were on our way to the exit. He at least survived long enough to move to a different location."

"Sod… Duncan, you don't think…" Aothor trailed off, chuckling. "The fire. What if…?"

"It is a likely possibility."

Peter frowned, feeling more than a little lost. Rather than bother trying to clarify, he turned to Liri. "How did you get out of the castle?"

Instead of answering she turned and began walking further into the woods, in the direction of the lodge. The three of them followed her. For now, at least, it didn't seem like Howe's men were on their tail, but still Peter kept a careful ear out for any surprises.

"Lodge" was maybe a bit grand a term for the building—it was more of a little two-room shack meant for the skinning of game and the storing of arrows. Peter fought back the memories as he stepped inside. That part of his life was over now. His entire family gone, and there was nothing he could do to get them back—

He froze in place, staring at the bench in the back of the room. Oriana lay strewn across it, Oren resting atop her. Peter blinked, and they were still there. Rubbed his eyes, they were still there.

With trembling hands he touched Oren's cheek. Warm. Their eyes were closed, but breath escaped their parted lips.

"I—I don't… how…" He sputtered, unable to form words with any real sense. He clutched them tightly, like if he let go they would somehow disappear.

He leaned into them, took a deep breath, and finally let himself fall apart.

—

Everything was falling apart.

Smoke was beginning to spread throughout the castle surely as the invaders, making breathing dangerous and difficult. Twice now he'd attempted to make a break for the larder, and both times pieces of the burnt structure had fallen in front of him, forcing him to find alternate paths.

He finally ran out of road, so to speak, trapping himself in a dead-end hallway. Why was this even here? What kind of structural purpose did this serve? In his expertly panicked opinion, hallways should go somewhere. Like out of this castle.

Edmund tried to catch his breath and still his racing heart. He wasn't actually sure who he was running from at the moment: the templar or Howe's soldiers. Every time he managed to lose one, he ran right into the other, and on and on through the halls of the castle.

He had to get a handle on this situation. At this rate he'd be too late to save Bryce and Eleanor. Hell, he'd be too late to save himself.

He stilled his breathing, trying to calm himself. He turned his focus inward, reaching for his magic. The force that was once a bonfire in his heart flickered dimly now, like a dying candle in the wind, but at least now it was lit. He had some magic back.

Heavy footfalls were enclosing on his location. It was now or never. He couldn't run anymore.

The templar rounded the corner, blade in hand.

One last try. "Don't you have bigger things to be worrying about? Like, I don't know, the bands of soldiers actively butchering the inhabitants of the castle?" He'd heard the cries of dying servants and guards all night, and each time he'd had to flee because of his powerlessness.

"The greatest affront is your magic, an abomination to creation. The Maker's wrath will find those men, but not until you have first tasted it's fury, mage."

So much for that. Edmund raised his hands in surrender. "Chain me, and go save those people. They need your help. I won't run anymore."

The templar sneered as she drew nearer. "No, you won't run anymore."

Panic rose in his gut. She wasn't intending to capture him anymore. She'd gone past that.

Edmund built up what power he had inside his mind, building it in his brain until it pounded like a migraine. As the templar swung her sword at him, he pressed two fingers to his temple, releasing the energy in a blast that sent her flying.

Edmund gagged—no one ever warned him that using the mind blast spell would make him feel nauseous. Or maybe it wasn't supposed to do that and he'd done it wrong. A problem for another time.

He had but the barest amount of energy left. With no grander plan he cast it from him and towards the templar. Surprising absolutely no one, it manifested as flame. Fire engulfed the prone woman, and she screamed as the fire burned at her flesh.

Edmund looked away—now he was nauseous for an entirely different reason. He cut off the power, leaving him dizzy. Had he overdone it? Maybe. Pride had warned him of what happened to mages who drew past their limitations.

The templar writhed on the ground, screaming in agony. He should end her suffering. He knew that. It was his fault she was being tormented like this in the first place. The fire would be a slow death. Her sword would end it all in an instant.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he ran, leaving the still burning templar behind.

_Coward._

He let his feet carry him, trying to find halls that looked familiar. He leaned on the wall as the world began to spin. He honestly couldn't be sure what the cause was. Physical exhaustion? Overdrawing his magic? Smoke inhalation? The scent of burning flesh? Soul-wrenching guilt? Could be anything, really.

A terrible and thoroughly comforting thought crept into his mind. Even if he didn't make it out, even if he died, everything would be alright. There were three promising warden recruits who could save the day for the rest of Thedas.

He was ultimately unnecessary. A pretender faking everything until the moment when it would all come crashing down. He couldn't even bring himself to kill a person properly—he really wasn't cut out for the whole Warden thing, and sooner or later someone would realize that, and the jig would be up.

Unease plucked at the chord in his mind. He still didn't know anything. Nothing about why he was even here, how he got here, or what exactly he was doing in Edmund Amell's body.

He had to try and keep going, if for nothing more than to find the answers. Maybe those answers didn't even exist. But he had to try.

Using his staff to support himself as he walked, he carried onwards.

After what felt like an eternity, though it was really probably only a few minutes, he found the kitchens. He opened the door to the larder to find explosive pain in his shoulder.

"Ow! God damn it, what the hell—?" He stumbled backwards, clutching at the arrow in his shoulder. He blinked away the blurriness of his vision from the pain and saw the Teyrna staring him down, another arrow already on the bowstring. "I'm with Duncan! I'm with Duncan, don't shoot!"

"With Duncan? Then… you are the mage?" Eleanor said slowly, lowering her bow.

"Yeah. That's me. The mage."

Eleanor fell to her knees, holding her face in her hands. "A cruel trick of fate. If only the Maker had brought you to me but a few moments ago…" Edmund stilled, following her gaze to where Bryce sat propped against sacks of grain.

"Is he…?"

"He is with the Maker."

"I… I'm so sorry, Your Ladyship." He was too late.

"You must leave." Eleanor steeled herself, standing and turning her focus to the doorway. "My son left with your Wardens just a few minutes ago. If you hurry, you might be able to catch up to them."

"Come with me. There's no need for you to stay any longer."

"Until death and beyond. I will not leave Bryce."

"Lady Cousland, Oren and Oriana are alive."

Her reaction was instantaneous, turning and grabbing hold of him. Edmund winced at the searing pain in his shoulder, but the Teyrna did not let go.

"How can this be? Tell me, now!"

With his uninjured arm he removed her grip as he answered. "We got them out before the attack started. Took them to the hunting lodge in the woods. They should be safe. And you should get to safety, too. Come with me."

Eleanor began to cry then, laughter mixing with her tears. "Thank you, Warden. The Maker was truly looking out for us when he sent you." At this point he was getting very mixed messages about the Maker—first he'll feel the Marker's wrath, then he's a blessing from the Maker. Could people just make up their minds already? "Now go. The gates have been broken through. Howe's men will be on us in moments. I will hold off as many as I can, to buy time for my family that survives."

"You, gah, no, come with me. They need you, too. Ferelden needs you—"

Gripping him by his wounded shoulder, and moving him with remarkable strength, she shoved him across the larder and into the opening of the exit. By the time Edmund had righted himself to his feet, the Teyrna had shoved a shelf in front of it, blocking his return path to her.

Eleanor's words came though muffled from the other side. "Go, Warden! Go and send my love to my family."

He should try to reach her, to bring her along despite her wishes. There was no need for her to die, and she could help them so much later.

But this was her choice. Her sacrifice to make. He couldn't take that from her.

He would put the time she gave him to good use. He ran down the darkened passageway.

Beyond the exit door he found bodies. He checked them quickly—no faces he recognized. The others were still ahead.

An arrow whizzed by his head as he ran through the clearing to the woods. Edmund looked over his shoulder quickly to see a squad of twenty men beginning to make their pursuit. Pushing himself to his limit, he sped up, very much not wanting more arrows in his body. One was more than enough. The blood from his wound was seeping into his clothing and sticking sickeningly to his skin.

He cleared the tree line, but he only slowed down enough to not trip on tree roots and the like. Did he even remember how to find the lodge? If he remembered his journal right, he needed to bear left after the boulder shaped like a bear, then keep going til he saw a log that looked like a dragon… which would probably be easy enough if he weren't operating in pitch black darkness.

He made do with clumsy guesswork, painfully aware that he was leading a group of Howe's men directly to the others. But he didn't have anywhere else to run. Aothor stood outside the lodge, clearly on guard duty.

Edmund was so happy to see the dwarf he could have cried. Or maybe that was just the pain. Eh.

Aothor stiffened as Edmund approached, apprehensive of a potential threat, but relaxed once he was able to recognize him. "We were worried you'd died."

"Don't worry, still plenty of time for that." Edmund leaned against the wall of the lodge, wheezing to catch his breath. The reprieve from his flight would be brief, but he'd revel in every slightly rested moment he could get. His legs ached terribly. "Who all is here?"

"You, me, Duncan, Liri, our newest recruit Peter, his dog, his sister-in-law, and his nephew."

It wasn't everyone. He'd failed to save Bryce and Eleanor. His plan wasn't good enough. But he could throw himself a pity party about that later. "Good. Get everyone ready. We've got company coming, and they'll be arriving with swords. I'd rather not be here when they arrive."

—

The night wind was cold against her skin as she sat on the roof, watching the stillness of the city stretched out before her. She blew into her hands to warm them, the autumn chill making her regretful that she'd forgotten her gloves at home.

A pair of guards passed by on the street below. Isefel rested her hand at her throwing knives as they cast an overlong look at the closed gate of the alienage, but they passed on by, their muted voices drifting up on the wind. The tension in her body eased, but only slightly. The guardsmen had been getting more aggressive lately. Whether it was from their own nature or something else was stirring them up Isefel couldn't say, but she knew for certain more and more elves were finding themselves on the foul end of their tempers and their blades.

It would be another hour at least until the next patrol came by. Isefel stood and turned away, treading lightly so as not to alert her presence to the inhabitants of the building below. Her nightly watch normally consisted of turning away drunks who tried to harass the residents of the alienage or thugs looking for an easy target. The numerous gangs of Denerim were an occasional problem, but most of them knew well enough by now to stay out of her way, and she offered the same courtesy to them where she could. The guardsmen were the only ones she really hesitated to face, and for some very good reasons.

They'd all learned the hard way that a few dead guards could easily translate to an alienage on fire.

Tonight's goal was different from the usual rooftop watch, however. It was something a little more risky and infinitely more personal. She crept along the skyline with practiced grace, pausing and dodging were necessary to stay out of sight from the city watch on the walls. Isefel wouldn't be surprised if she knew the layout of Denerim better by rooftop than from the street.

She caught sight of the steeple of the Chantry above the other buildings, perpetually illuminated by candles. Outside of the Crown District and the noble's estates, it was easily the most opulent building in Denerim. She perched on the edge of a nearby storefront, hidden in shadow but close enough to see the main entrance of the building. The doors were flanked by a pair of templars on guard, so no getting in that way. The windows on the front and sides were large enough for her to fit into, if she could open them, but she risked the templars noticing her if she tried to go in that way.

"You can get in through the bell chamber in the steeple, if you feel like climbing all the way up there."

Isefel snapped to action, seizing the person behind her and slamming them against the roof, a knife pressed to their neck. A moment passed and Isefel blinked, taking in the familiar face.

"So… you gonna get off me, or what?"

Isefel removed the blade and released her hold, turning away and back to the Chantry. "Go home, Tathas." Her nerves were too charged to deal with this, to deal with Tathas. Tonight was too important for her kid cousin to be sticking her nose in.

"Yes, yes, hello to you too," she said, sitting up and crouching beside her. "You forgot these." Isefel glanced over to see Tathas holding out a pair of gloves.

Isefel took the gloves, giving the teenager at her side a hard look. "I said go home. You shouldn't be out here."

"You shouldn't be here, either."

"That's not the point."

"Yeah, it kind of is," Tathas said, looking entirely unapologetic. "I know what you're here to do, and you can't—you shouldn't—be alone when you do it."

Isefel stilled, unable to feel anything but completely exposed. "And you'd be the expert on this, would you?"

Tathas sat down fully, letting her legs dangle off the rooftop. "Who knows? Maybe I just know you well enough by now to tell when you're hurting."

Isefel sighed, holding her head in her hands. "How did you find out?"

"You're not the only one who keeps an eye on the roster of guards and templars stationed in the city. When I saw that name on the list of templars transferring here it wasn't hard to figure out what you were going to be doing tonight," Tathas said, gazing off towards the Chantry. "You sure you can go through with it?"

"Yes," she said, the resolve she felt earlier in the night returning to strengthen her. "Is there any chance I can convince you to go home short of dragging you back myself?"

"Nope," Tathas said, rising to stand. "Like I said before you so rudely attacked me, the bell chamber in the steeple's our best way in."

Isefel sized up the roof of the Chantry. "It looks doable—wait, why do you know how to break into the Chantry?"

"To say my nightly prayers to Andraste, obviously," she said, grinning with familiar mischief.

Isefel resolved that she was probably better off not knowing and climbed down from the shop roof. Tathas followed close behind as she crept along the shadows of the quiet marketplace. The templars on duty didn't seem very alert, but it was better to be safe than stabbed. They made their way to the back of the Chantry and scaled the wall from back there such that they were able to pull themselves onto the roof.

The actual steeple was a mite more troublesome. Significantly steeper and with no good handholds, Isefel resorted to taking a throwing dagger in each hand and using them as picks to dig into the roofing and pull herself upwards, lending a pair to Tathas so she could climb similarly.

"Mind the bell," Tathas whispered as they began lowering themselves in through the openings, "If you kick it, we're screwed."

"I'd puzzled that out for myself, funny enough." It was easier said than done, as the bell took up quite a lot of space in the interior of the steeple. They took a moment to catch their breath once they reached the floor, their breathing strangely loud in the silent interior of the Chantry. It was blessedly empty. She didn't want to think about what'd happened if there'd been unfortunate Sisters up late doing midnight prayers. "Barracks for the templars should be on the main level, near the front entry."

"Damn, looks like they've already locked up everything from the offering plate," said Tathas, gazing off towards the shrine at the back of the main chamber.

"I can't believe you would steal from the Chantry," Isefel said as they moved down the hall. "You know what happens to people who do that."

"You know what happens to the ones that get _caught_ doing that. I'm pretty sure the ones that get away with it get to spend the silver on new clothes."

"No, you cannot bribe me with shopping, and no, you cannot break into the Chantry vault."

Tathas huffed, her face settling into a pout. "You used to be more fun."

"I used to be an idiot," Isefel stopped at the top of the staircase to the lower level and tested the first step. The wood creaked softly under her weight and she removed the pressure. "There's a time and a place, and just because you can take something doesn't mean you always should. You haven't figured that out yet, and that's why I don't want you out with me at night."

Instead of risking the stairs making too much noise, she propped herself up to sit on the banister to slide down. Tathas mimicked her action on the other side and the two of them landed silently on the rug at the end of the stairs.

Isefel held a finger to her lips. They were getting close enough now that they couldn't risk even a whispered conversation.

With every footstep her heart pounded louder in her ears. She pressed the doors of the barracks open, a hand pressed to the hinge to muffle the slight creaking. She moved through the darkness, her elven eyes still keen without any light. She inspected each bunk as she passed it. She knew the faces of every templar on rotation, and it wasn't until the last bunk she found the newly transferred knight.

Her hand shook slightly as she gripped a blade. The anger and hurt she'd held onto for so many years welled up inside her and static buzzed in her ear. With her unarmed hand she reached out, slowly turning the man's slumbering form from his side to his back.

Isefel felt her heart stop.

"It's not him," she whispered in spite of herself.

"What do you mean? It was his name on the list. This is Ser Fredrick Killian. It has to be."

She stared at his face. This was not the face from her memory. It was a face burned into her mind, and no matter how she might try she would never forget the man who killed her mother. This man was too young, his hair was too light, and his nose was a completely different shape.

By some cruel trick he just had the same name as the templar from all those years ago.

She couldn't decide if she wanted to laugh or cry. It was cruel, the way the world built up her hopes for closure only to immediately snatch it from her grasp.

Isefel turned away and let her feet re-trace the way out, not even bothering to conceal her presence and only vaguely aware of Tathas following after her. It wasn't until she climbed her way back up to the rooftop that she really let herself breathe. She held her head in her hands, wondering why she bothered in the first place.

Isefel finally regained herself and looked at her cousin. Tathas hadn't even been born at the time of Adaia's death, but Isefel knew that she hurt for her absence as well. Isefel buried the pain back down. Even if it had been the right man, killing him wouldn't bring her back. Right now she still had to be strong for the family she had left. "Come on," she said, turning back to the stillness of the city. "Let's go home."


	10. A Wedding Broken (Part 1)

They kept close together as they raced through the woods. They did not move as quickly as Duncan would have liked, but they were burdened with the still slumbering Oren and Oriana, and Edmund's wound only allowed him to move so quickly.

Duncan adjusted his hold on Oriana as he moved to step over a fallen tree in the way. His newest recruit did similarly with Oren in his arms, though the small child offered him a wider range of movement. Duncan suspected that if Peter was capable of carrying both Oren and Oriana, he would have.

They had yet to get a straight answer out of Liri on how she got them out of the castle. It was hard to have a conversation when armed soldiers cased you through a forest in the middle of the night, after all.

Peter's anger and frustration was understandable, and only natural for the situation, but it was clear to Duncan that he would need to be worked with on it. Emotion could be a powerful fuel, but he needed to better direct it, and know when to restrain it.

For the most part, they followed Peter through the forest, as he was the only one familiar with the terrain. It had been some time since they heard the sounds of their pursuers, but Duncan was unconvinced they would give up the manhunt so easily.

Duncan looked back—Edmund was lagging, stumbling with every other step, clutching at the arrow wound in his shoulder. "We need to stop," Duncan said, slowing his pace to a halt. The others around him did similarly. Duncan looked to Peter. "Is there anywhere nearby we can rest? Out of sight, preferably."

Peter nodded. "There's a cave not far ahead. Killed the black bear that lived there not but a few months ago. It should still be unoccupied." He lead them further ahead.

The cave was little more than a cavity in the side of a ravine, but it was well surrounded by shrubbery and well out of sight. If Peter had not led them to it, Duncan would not have seen it at all. They set the unconscious Couslands in the rear of the cave. Lady settled herself beside them, looking at them with large and concerned eyes.

Duncan cast an eye towards Liri. Their still slumbering state was her doing, no doubt. "How much longer will they be under?"

Liri shrugged_. "To be honest, I have no idea. But they'll wake up eventually. If it was an overdosage they would have died by now." _She aided Edmund into the cave and into a sitting position.

"Um… what…?" Peter said, looking at Liri and then up at Duncan. Ah. Peter was the only one present unable to understand Liri. It honestly surprised him that it had taken this long for her muteness to become an issue.

"She's not sure how much longer they'll sleep for," Aothor said readily enough, translating for Liri. "But they will wake up."

"We will need to tend to these wounds," Duncan said, kneeling beside Edmund. The arrow was a clean and non-lethal hit but once they removed it he would need immediate treatment. Peter was injured as well, a shallow scrape cutting into the side of his face and neck, now mostly dried, but they needed to prevent infection. "All of our other equipment is lost in the castle, so we will need to improvise with what we have. Aothor, see if you can find any elfroot—"

"Ah, actually, Liri, in my bag." Edmund said, gesturing for her to bring his pack nearer. "I took the liberty of packing some essentials ahead of time. Our med kits, rations, basic supplies."

"You took the time to get our stuff from a burning sieged castle?" Aothor asked, a healthy amount of incredulity in his voice. "Do you have any idea how reckless and dangerous that was?"

"More than you could imagine. And to be fair, the castle was neither on fire nor under attack at the time, so save the lecture."

Duncan inspected the contents of the bag. There was a pattern lining up here. In the Deep Roads Edmund had packed an extra set of everything, only for Aothor to unexpectedly join them half way through the journey. Here, he'd packed essential supplies and rations enough for the lot of them right before the castle came under attack and they were all forced to flee. Edmund claimed to have known of certain possible recruits, and so far all of that was lining up as well.

Duncan cast a sideways look at the mage. He knew even more than all of that and was intentionally withholding likely even more information.

A problem and discussion for another time. They were hardly out of the woods yet, in both literal and figurative senses. Duncan took two potions out of the bag, passing one to Peter and Edmund each. "For the blood loss, and the pain."

Aothor began applying a salve to Peter's injury and bandaging him up. The wound would scar, but ultimately the damage was cosmetic.

Edmund gaged, but downed the potion in a few swallows. "God, that stuff's nasty. No one ever warned that healing potions would taste like battery acid." Liri passed him a piece of tree branch. Edmund began to question, but the answer was obvious enough. He grimaced, taking the branch and placing it in his mouth, biting down on it.

"Be as silent as you can," Duncan said, preparing his grip on the arrow. Edmund nodded, bracing himself. Duncan pulled, ripping the arrow from his flesh. Edmund tensed, his whole body seizing at the shock of the pain, letting out a low groan and a long hiss. Duncan inspected the wound and was satisfied to find that the arrow had been removed cleanly.

Liri stood ready with the salve, bandaging the wound as soon as Duncan moved away. He listened for a moment as the medical care was being finished. The only noise he could discern was the rustling of the wind through the trees and the noises of nocturnal animals going about their business. Howe's men had yet to find their trail, at least for now.

"_Didn't see a bow on that templar," _Liri said once she finished her work._ "One of Howe's got you?"_

"The Teyrna, actually. Thought I was one of the attackers."

Peter's head perked up. "Mother. You saw her? Is she alright? Is she coming?"

"I… no. I tried to convince her. Was thinking about knocking her unconscious and carrying her out, but I couldn't manage that with this shoulder. She pushed me into the exit and sealed it up after me. I'm sorry." Edmund said. "I'd meant to use these potions and bandages on your father, but I got there too late. He was already gone." Peter's face fell at the news.

They settled themselves in the cave together, finally able to breathe.

"You saved Oren and Oriana," Peter said, looking to Liri gratefully. "When we couldn't find them in the castle, I'd thought… I couldn't even bring myself to imagine it. But they're safe. I'll never be able to thank you enough."

"_Happy to help. Wish I could have done more," _she said, Aothor speaking the words as she signed them. Liri bristled slightly, but otherwise allowed him to act as her voice. Despite their brief comradery upon exiting the Deep Roads, to say that she was still prickly towards the former prince was a bit of an understatement. Aothor seemed at as much of a loss as to the source of her animosity as Duncan was, but for the most part Aothor seemed content to allow her a certain barrier of space.

"So do I." Peter said in a small voice. Silence hung amongst them for a time, only to be broken again by Peter. "How did you even get them out? You would have had to have known about the attack ahead of time."

Liri shrugged._ "I just helped Edmund. Whole thing was his idea." _All eyes turned to Edmund. Whether it was lingering pain from the wound, or something else, the mage paled under their attention. _"Didn't believe him at first, but… well, here we are."_

"You knew this whole time? How?" To Duncan's slight surprise it was not Peter who asked, but Aothor. "You didn't even think to say anything?"

"I did say something," Edmund said weakly. "To Liri."

"But not to the people who could actually do something about it," Aothor said. The accusation in his voice was slowly turning to anger. "You didn't tell the Teyrn or the guards. Stone, you didn't even tell Duncan, your Commander. How many people are dead that could have been saved if you'd said something?"

Edmund's face hardened. "How do you think that would have gone? Tell me, I'm genuinely curious."

"We could have better prepared for the assault, or at least evacuated the castle," Peter said. "Or we could have confronted Howe directly. Stopped all this before it could get this far, cut the head off this treacherous snake."

Edmund nodded along as Peter spoke. "Mhm, mhm, sure. Could have done that." He was becoming agitated. "Let's suspend all disbelief for a moment and assume everyone believes me when I tell them about this. Your fathers best friend, with whom he has fought countless battles and been to the void and back with, is going to turn on him and slaughter his whole family and claim the teyrnir as his own. Most of the Cousland forces are already on the road with Fergus, but still you alert the remaining guards, fortify defenses. There are two outcomes to that." Edmund said, holding up his fingers dramatically.

"You don't know that for sure. Maker, you never even gave us the choice! Never even gave us the chance to make our own decision!" Peter said.

Edmund ignored his interruption and continued on. "Option 1: the castle is still overrun, because Howe has the massive advantage of numbers. It would take longer, drawing the battle out instead of being quick, but still, we would lose to them. Or, option 2: Howe is tipped off by the sudden preparedness of the guards and the castle, realizes he no longer has the element of surprise, and postpones his attack for another time. Thus, making me, and by extension the Grey Wardens, look like not only fools but also liars, destroying our credibility with your family and with all Ferelden."

"You. Don't. Know. That," Peter bit out. "Maybe we could have at least saved more people. We could have gathered up all the residents and fled, just like we're doing now. We didn't have to be the only survivors."

"_A lot of innocent people died in that castle. Maybe… we could have saved them too, if we'd told more people."_

Edmund cast his gaze on Liri without actually turning his head. "Who do you think is easier to track down and slaughter in the woods? A small, quick moving group of skilled individuals, or a whole host of refugees? We wouldn't have saved them. We'd have brought them out into the wilderness to die."

Shouts in the night punctuated his words. Duncan held up a hand to halt the conversation, but it has hardly necessary as they immediately silenced themselves. Everyone tensed, hands to their weapons. Duncan strained his ears to hear. The men were nearby but moving away from where they hid in the cave. Their position had not yet been given up, and Maker willing, it would stay that way.

"I've spent a lot of time thinking about this. Trying to find something that would work. This plan was the one I came up with, and even that went to hell in a handbasket." Edmund said to Peter, voice barely above a whisper. "You can hate me for it all you like. I won't blame you. But I did what I could with the options I had."

"We can only choose," Duncan said, "No one knows if the choice is right or not, often even after the fact. All you can do is act, and now, what's done is done. There's no sense arguing about what-if's and what could have been."

"You're taking his side?" Peter said, aghast.

Duncan gave him a hard look. "I am not taking sides because there are no sides. We are Wardens, and we are in this together," he said, turning his gaze next to the mage. Edmund did not wither under the stare, but rather allowed the exhaustion of the experience show on his face, dropping the façade of strength. "I agree that Edmund should have alerted at least all his fellow Wardens to the danger. But I also agree that it is unlikely the situation would have turned out any better than what we are currently experiencing."

Tempers still simmered, but at least for now they all seemed content to drop it.

"_Everyone's exhausted. We should try and rest while we can." _said Liri.

"An excellent suggestion," said Duncan. "Aothor and I will take first watch. Assuming that goes undisturbed, Liri and Peter can take the second. We will leave here at first light." It would only give them a few hour of rest, but it was rest they sorely needed. No sooner had the words been spoken than Edmund's head began to droop.

Duncan seated himself at the mouth of the cave alongside Aothor. It wasn't long before they heard the gentle breathing and soft snores of their companions, taken in by sleep.

For nearly two hours they sat in silence, carefully watching the darkness of the forest.

"He never answered my question." Aothor said, casting an eye back towards the mage.

"Oh? And which question would that be?"

"How he knew about the attack."

Duncan sighed. "I noticed as well." But he suspected he knew what the Edmund's answer would be, regardless. Magic, and spirits. Unbelievable, unlikely, but impossible to prove otherwise.

Aothor looked to Duncan now, contemplative. "You could have forced the Teyrna to come with us, back in the larder. She wouldn't have been that much of a burden. She was still healthy, and capable of fighting. So why did you let her stay behind?" Aothor asked. There was no accusation in his voice, but rather a curiosity.

"The Grey Wardens must remain neutral. We are not to involve ourselves in political matters or the power struggles of the nobility. Had I rescued the Teyrna, or taken Peter from the castle without recruiting him first…"

"… you would be doing just that. Involving yourself politically by protecting nobility, violating your code and also the law. Which would give anyone with designs against the Wardens an excuse to come after us, making all Wardens a target." Aothor finished. Duncan was glad for his political aptitude. He wasn't so certain the others would understand such a thing as easily.

"It is a dangerous line we Wardens walk here in Ferelden. Though we have been welcomed back, wounds of the past place all of our actions under intense scrutiny, and there are many who would seek an excuse to see us banished from the lands once again."

"You can't intervene to protect nobles because you're restricted by the law, but you're allowed to fight tooth and nail to defend a recruit of your order." Aothor was quiet for a while, contemplative. "Peter… I think he'll understand that. Certainly not now, and not likely for a while. The wounds of his loss are too fresh. But someday."

"I believe so as well. Given the proper guidance, I believe he will make for a fine Warden. And now he has the motivation to become a great one: to protect what remains of his family from the Blight." Duncan said. The night had been a tragedy, but greatness was often forged in fire. "You might even be able to guide him in that way, actually. There is a similarity to your circumstances."

"Perhaps. I could try to speak to him, but I don't know how well he'd take it. No one likes being told how to grieve. We all deal with loss differently."

Duncan frowned a bit. "And how are you dealing with yours?" The former prince had been nothing but stoic strength since his recruitment. It would be all to easy to overlook hidden pain.

"That part of my life is over now. Respectfully, Commander, I'd rather not discuss it."

Duncan dropped it, deciding it was likely too soon to press him about now, and switched the subject back. "Peter's intuition was actually at least somewhat accurate—Edmund was definitely up to something, as he'd feared. Just not what he suspected. No one else seemed to have any idea. Not even I noticed he was up to something." He would have to watch the mage more closely from now on.

"He should have told us. Or you, at least. We could have stopped the Teyrn from being injured." Aothor sighed, rubbing his brow. "But I guess Edmund had something of the right mindset, about only taking a few people out of the castle. We would have made ourselves a bigger target in more ways than one by trying to protect refugees from Highever."

"It would seem so, though I do not think that he followed quite the same thought process we did," Duncan said. "He did make a point of saving Oren and Oriana, which could hardly be considered remaining neutral. Which lands us right back in the same predicament I mentioned before."

"Speaking of…" Aothor said, looking over his shoulder to the back of the cave. Duncan followed his gaze to see Oriana beginning to stir. "We need to decide what's to become of them. And soon."

—

"What are you laughing about?"

Edmund couldn't see the demon anywhere, but its voice sounded everywhere and nowhere at once. Hiding himself from Edmund's perception was a fun little game Pride liked to play every now and then. And by fun, he meant absolutely awful. Pride claimed it was to "test his awareness," but Edmund had the sinking suspicion that the demon just liked to watch him squirm.

Pride continued to cackle, its demonic voice echoing off of the little chasm of the fade they'd claimed as theirs. "You, mageling. You do amuse me so."

"Glad I could provide you with comedic relief in these trying times, then." Edmund folded his arms, glancing about the space for any sign of the demons physical presence. Or, however much of a physical presence a being made of an abstract concept could have in a metaphysical dreamscape. "Seriously, what's so funny?"

"What do you take me for?" Pride's tone changed abruptly, humor vanishing and replaced by barely coiled fury. "My dominion is strength. My dominion is might. You know this, and yet you ask me to teach you healing. Such a thing is either a joke or an insult, and for your sake, I hope it is the former."

Edmund couldn't help but bristle. He'd put up with so much shit today from so many places, and now he was getting it from Pride. "So you can't do it? Don't know how? Too weak?" He knew he was poking the demon. He also knew it was a bad idea. But he'd met his limit today.

Pride roared, revealing itself in a burst of lightning. "I am Pride. All power is mine—I _am _ power!" Pride growled, leaning in close. "If you are to seek weakness, seek a weaker spirit. I am above such things, and I will not be insulted in this way."

Edmund held his ground, staring it down. "Well, too bad. I want to learn healing and not risk setting someone on fire if I try. Haven't seen any other spirits but you, so you're all I have." Edmund faltered after the words left his mouth. He hadn't seen any other spirits. Not even a wisp, not even once. "Pride… why haven't I seen any other spirits?"

Pride chuckled menacingly, beginning to prowl the space. "I am not partial to sharing."

"Aw, didn't know you cared," Edmund said, rolling his eyes. "You trapped me here, didn't you? In this part of the Fade."

"Hmm. I built a wall of sorts. To keep you in. To keep others out," said Pride.

"Why?"

"Why do you think?" It was another of Pride's fun games, to not answer questions. Made for awfully frustrating lessons, when it actually agreed to teach him.

Edmund thought back to his previous conversations with Pride, thinking of clues and hints. There was always some secret layer to everything it said. "You… you're protecting me. You're worried that less intelligent demons will try to possess me, thereby destroying me, and you'll lose your pet."

"I do not know that it would destroy you. But the possibility remains. I will not let the dull likes of Rage sink it's claws into you, nor Envy rob me for it's petty manipulations. I will not share."

"Huh. I'd be touched, but I'm pretty sure you're not doing this out of the kindness of your heart."

"I have no heart."

"Yeah, figured as much," Edmund said with a sigh. So much for healing magic. Unless… maybe he could bargain for it? "Is there anything I could do to convince you to teach me healing?"

"Presumptuous of you to ask this of me again, mageling, especially after I have already refused. Presumptuous and bold, and… dare I say… prideful," it said with a smile. Edmund blinked and it was gone, once again hidden from his vision. He scowled, and tried casting out his senses again to find it. "We are not so different, I think. Or perhaps though I have not possessed you, I yet influence your nature. Pride oozes from you, boy."

Edmund stiffened. "I'm nothing like you."

"Are you so sure?" Edmund felt its presence for the most fleeting moment before it had moved again, evading full detection. He did not like the turn this conversation had taken. "Tell me… why didn't you kill the templar? Oh yes, I know about that. I feel it eating away at you."

"I… I couldn't do it. I was too afraid."

"Yes. Afraid. Afraid of bloodying your hands, of damaging whatever sense of righteous nobility you hold onto. You were stopped by your pride."

"There's a difference between nobility and pride. It isn't the same." None of it was the same. He wasn't even trying to be noble—he was just a coward; how did pride have anything to do with this?

"How sure of that are you? From where I stand, the differences seem… superficial. Obsolete. Why do you fight to change fate? To save the lives of those destined to die? You long to be a hero. You burn for it, aching to be significant in some way. You want so desperately to matter. It is why you felt such guilt and shame when you failed to save the Teyrn and Teyrna. Deny it to yourself, but you cannot hide your pride from me."

Edmund flared his aura out from his body, and he found Pride. He spun around to find the demon looming over him, peering into his soul with a dozen eyes. He froze under that gaze. Deep in the core of his being Edmund willed himself to wake. He had to get out of there.

But still he stared at Pride.

"I wonder…" Pride drawled, reaching a clawed hand towards him. "If you've become enough like me… will I be able to slip in…?"

Edmund was falling then, free falling through an endless void. Pain like lightning burned inside him.

Pride. It was trying to possess him. And he didn't know how to stop it.

He couldn't let this happen. It wasn't just him at risk—the others nearby would be in danger if Pride took him over. Duncan and the other Wardens, and Oren and Oriana.

There was only one thing he could do—he let loose the wildfire within himself. His own energy burned, consuming the electrical force with a flood of fire. The heat spread through his soul with the purge, and even though he still remained in the Fade he felt himself fueled, revitalized by it's energy.

He was powerful. He could do anything. He felt like he was floating, high off of the surplus. Dimly he was aware that he should stop. The force of Pride was gone from his soul. But he couldn't douse the flames. Or maybe he didn't want to.

The fire spread beyond his heart, reaching out and latching onto Pride. Suddenly the fire was no longer just flame. Power like a storm lanced through him, but it… didn't hurt. It was charging him, amplifying him like a battery. He passed his conscious forwards with the energy and suddenly he was larger than himself, grander, and—

A cry of agony snapped him to attention. Pride. It was hurting. He pulled back, cutting off his power and snuffing it like a candle.

Only one thought—a question—stayed with him as he felt his body waking.

_Did he just… try to possess Pride?_

Edmund opened his eyes to see his hands charged with electricity.

—

He was shaken awake by Duncan. Peter blinked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "What…?"

"They are stirring. We will need to explain things, keep them calm," Duncan said, turning to Edmund to wake him next, though Liri stopped his hand before he could and began signing.

Peter looked to Aothor, expecting an interpretation, and it was only a moment's delay before it was provided as Duncan moved away from the mage, leaving him asleep. "Edmund fought off the templar by himself then got through who knows how many guards before he managed to find us. We should let him rest." The whole communication thing would be clumsy with the dwarven woman, but as long as one of the others was around it would be manageable.

Peter set himself beside Oriana, who shifted uneasily on the edge of wakefulness. Lady whimpered, fidgeting impatiently. She licked Oriana's face, finally stirring her to consciousness.

"What… where… oh, Maker, my head…"

"Easy, easy," Peter said. "How do you feel?"

"Urgh, like I've been kicked in the head by an ox," she said, holding her head in her hands.

Peter glanced at Liri and Aothor.

"_Fairly common side effect."_

Oriana blinked, beginning to take in her surroundings. "Peter, what are you doing here? You're… you're hurt? Where are we? Why are we sitting in a dirty cave?"

"We're outside the castle. Everything's alright now."

Oriana frowned. "That means that something wasn't right before."

"My lady, earlier this night Highever was attacked. Your husband's family was betrayed by Arl Howe." Duncan said. Peter glared at him. Way to ease her into this.

Oriana gaped at him, the turned to Peter. "This is a jest. Surely it is. Peter, what is going on? Who are these people?"

"They're Grey Wardens." Peter sighed. Maybe it was best to be direct. "They got you and Oren out of the castle right before the attack started. Mother and Father didn't make it. We… we lost everything."

She gripped her son's still sleeping form as he spoke, listening with growing horror. "I can't believe this. I won't. Please Peter, say this is all a joke and take us home already. It isn't funny at all."

"I wish it was a joke. More than anything," Peter said, steeling himself. He had to be strong for her and Oren now. "I wish we could go home. But we haven't a home to go back to."

"Maker…" Oriana trembled slightly her breathing short. "You said… it was Howe?" Peter nodded. "What of Fergus?"

Peter sighed, shaking his head. "I don't know. All we can do is pray Howe didn't have something planned for him on the road, and that he made it to Ostagar safely with our troops. Maker willing, I'll see him in a few weeks."

"You mean you're going to the front?"

"I'm to tell King Cailan what happened and find Fergus if I can. Then, I join the Grey Wardens."

Oriana gaped at him. "No, Peter, you can't."

He could. He would. "I gave Father my word. I aim to keep it." It was his duty now, the last thing he had promised his parents. He wanted nothing more than to turn and go to Amaranthine, to visit on the Howes even a piece of the terror and devastation they had brought to his family. But this is where he was needed now. "And besides, these Wardens saved you, saved Oren. It's the least they are owed."

"I… I understand." Oriana steadied herself. Peter reminded himself that just as Mother had been strong and unwavering, Oriana was made of sterner stuff than her gentle exterior would imply. She would be fine. They all would, now. "I'm coming with you to find Fergus."

"My lady, I'm afraid I cannot allow that," Duncan said firmly, beating Peter to it by just a second. At least they were of one mind on this.

"What do you mean, I can't come look for my husband?"

"Ostagar is an army camp, and the foe we are facing is not man, but monstrous. I would not bring you and your son there, not even as a last resort."

"So what is to become of us, then? You leave us here and go off without us? Where else do you expect us to go?" Oriana crossed her arms, looking at Duncan intensely.

"I've a thought on that," Aothor said. "Crestwood isn't far from here. If we left at sunrise, we could reach it sometime in the late afternoon. We find someone to house them for a month or two, pay them if need be, just for long enough for us to find Fergus and him to come and collect them."

Oriana raised a brow. "Crestwood? Don't be ridiculous. Surely there are other places we could go. What about Bann Loren's estate? Or Bann Alfstanna's?"

"Perhaps," Aothor said with a shrug. "Pretend you're Arl Howe, my lady, and that you have just successfully taken over Highever. Near the top of your priorities is keeping an ear out for survivors who could tell a tale contrary to what you want spread and neutralizing them. Now, suppose you hear through the grapevine that the rightful Teyrna of Highever and her son are hiding in a Bann's estate. What do you think he'd do?"

"Our allies would never give her over." Peter said. How could the dwarf even think like that?

"Perhaps not your allies. But servants, guards, and others can be bought. Everyone has a price for their information. Go somewhere as visible as that, and Howe will hear about it eventually. You're Antivan, my lady, so tell me: what do lords do to threats they want neutralized?" Aothor asked pointedly.

Oriana swallowed heavily. "Assassins."

Aothor nodded. "Exactly. Which is why right now, you need to disappear. Vanish into some little village, take fake names even. Wait until your man comes for you and until your king brings Howe to justice. Otherwise you and your son will be in more risk."

"You've… thought a lot about this." What kind of life had Aothor come from where he was just ready with this kind of thing?

"I'm not saying my idea is the best one, but I feel it covers all the necessary bases," Aothor said. "I'm open to opinions and ideas, of course. It is ultimately her decision where she and her son will go."

Duncan made a considering sort of sound. "We still need to get to Denerim before we can go to Ostagar and backtracking to Crestwood will cost us nearly an extra day… but it seems most reasonable of our options."

"I… I believe I agree." Oriana let out a long breath before bowing her head towards them all. "You Wardens have done so much for me and my son. We will not forget this kindness."

"There is one tiny wrinkle, though," Peter said. "How are we supposed to pay someone to house them when we don't have any money? I'm sure we have some odds and ends we could sell, and it looks like Oriana has a few pieces of jewelry that could be traded, but I don't think it'll be nearly enough—" He was interrupted by Liri tugging on the end of his shirt. "What?"

She passed him her bag, holding it open. Peter looked inside and couldn't help but gasp at what he saw.

"What? What is it?" Oriana asked, urging him to speak.

Peter looked at the dwarven woman, not sure if he should be grateful or furious. "You stole my grandmother's silver dining set. And my great-grandfather's cufflinks."

"You _what? _Why on earth would you do that?" Aothor asked, looking absolutely appalled. Duncan just laughed, not at all looking surprised. Liri signed something quickly, unapologetic. Aothor let out a long sigh before translating "'Not like they were using them anymore.'"

"It's perfect," Oriana said, taking the bag and looking inside. "With the money we could get for this, combined with what I get for selling my necklace and wedding ring, Oren and I could afford a room in an inn for at least a few months."

"And fare for passage on a ship, should the need arise," Peter said, finally getting ahold of himself. "If the fighting in Ostagar moves north, promise me you'll take Oren and sail for Antiva to stay with your family in Calabria. I'd rather you be far away than be in danger."

"Ferelden is my home, I…"

"Oriana, please. I thought I'd lost you both once. I don't want to fear that ever again."

"… fine. I swear it." She said. Sadness at just the thought washed over her. Oriana always said that Antiva was where she was from, but that Ferelden—that Highever—was her home.

"Hey, chin up. I'm sure your parents would love to meet Oren, yeah? They've been writing about wanting a visit since before he was even born."

Oriana began to laugh, the tears she'd been holding back shinning in her eyes. "Yes. I think they'd like that very much." Lady licked gently at Oriana's cheeks, catching the tears as they fell. She patted Lady on the head with one hand and whipped off her face with the other, for once not reacting in disgust to the Mabari's affection. "That's a good girl, Lady. Oh, Peter… how did it come to this?"

"I don't know. But Howe won't get away with it." Even if he couldn't be the one to make him pay.

Peter heard a rustling and looked over his shoulder, wary of approaching danger, but it was just the mage fidgeting in his sleep. He was sweating, turning restlessly. Bad dreams, if Peter had a guess. His own brief moment of rest had been blissfully empty because of exhaustion, but he didn't look forwards to nightmares this night would surely cause.

"We should all try and rest more while we can. It's still a few hours until sunrise," said Duncan, seating himself.

"Right. Liri and I have watch," Peter nodded. "Oriana, you should rest as well."

She shook her head, looking down at her son. "I've slept enough, I think. Besides… once Oren wakes, I'll have to tell him… about all this."

"You don't need to, I can—"

"No. He should hear it from me." She brushed her fingers through his dark hair as the little boy continued to slumber on, blissfully unaware that his life was changed forever. "Anton and Fabia."

"Come again?"

"The names we'll use while we're in hiding. Fergus and I nearly named Oren Anton, after my father. And a dear childhood friend of mine in Calabria was Fabia. If we'd have had a girl, that's what we'd have called her." She explained in a whispered voice so as not to prevent Aothor and Duncan from falling asleep or rouse the still restless mage. "We will be Fabia and Anton Patient, waiting in Crestwood until my merchant husband returns from his travels abroad. That should be sufficient for anyone who asks."

"I think it will. You're clever, and you're strong. You'll be alright until Fergus can come find you. Which shouldn't be very long once I tell him; no force in Thedas will be able to keep him from rushing to get you, I suspect."

Oriana laughed softly. "I hope you are right."

Silence fell over them. The stillness felt foreign after the chaos that filled his head just a few hours ago. With nothing else to occupy himself, Peter settled at the entrance of the cave where Liri already sat on watch.

He cast a wary eye towards her. He'd been dead right, she was a thief. He supposed he should be grateful for the fact now, as it was because of her sticky fingers that they would be able to get Oren and Oriana looked after, but he couldn't help but feel rankled that she'd still managed to swipe something even after he assigned someone to watch her.

Peter didn't really track the time as it passed, instead busied his mind on trying to prepare himself for what was coming. Becoming a Warden. He'd been recruited, sure, but there was probably some kind of initiation they would go through before being considered proper Wardens. Were there tests or trials of some kind? He didn't even really know what any of this entailed, and the only person who was awake for him to ask was the one Warden he couldn't talk to.

A strange sound, like a low and steady hum, began emanating from the cave behind him. Oriana gasped sharply. Peter turned around.

He wasn't sure what he expected to see, but what he saw was Edmund shooting into a sitting position, arms held out in front of him, sparks of lightening dancing between his fingers. He was drenched in a cold sweat, shaking from head to toe.

Edmund met his gaze, the mage's eyes betraying a deep terror before he seemed to realize where he was. He blinked it away, sucking in a sharp breath and clenched his fists. The power vanished, yet the cave smelt of ozone and felt charged with energy.

"What was that all about?" Peter asked, watching the mage warily. Liri stood, signing as she moved nearer to Edmund.

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's nothing."

"Didn't look like it," Peter said, arms crossed. "You nearly shot lightning at us all. That isn't 'nothing,' that's a hazard."

Edmund huffed, leaning back against the cave wall. "Sorry. Bad dreams. That doesn't normally happen. I think I just…" He groaned and held his head in his hands as if it ached. "I thought we were under attack."

Peter huffed, turning back to watch the forest. So every time the mage had a nightmare they all risked getting fried. Fantastic. And here he thought they were supposed to be out of danger.

Edmund glanced at Oriana, realizing she was awake. "Oh, hi. I'm Edmund. Nice to meet you. Peter, have you…?"

"We told her," he said, turning back to them.

"Good. We need to wake the others, talk about where they're going to go—"

"We all did that, too." Peter tried relaxing himself. Maybe the mage didn't deserve the cold attitude. Even if Peter still thought the situation was handled poorly, Edmund was the one responsible for saving Oren and Oriana. The least Peter could do was be civil.

"You… what? Already?" Edmund blinked in surprised. Liri said something, but Edmund didn't seem as compelled to translate as Aothor did. "Oh. I mean, I appreciate the consideration and that you let me sleep… but I really could have used a wake-up call. So, what's the plan?"

"Once it's light enough we're going to Crestwood and arrange for Oriana and Oren to stay there until we can tell Fergus what's happened," Peter said.

"Crestwood? That's… no, they can't, it'll be too—wait, no. That could work." The mage spoke quickly, seemingly in an argument with himself and was only narrating half of it. Liri caught Peter's gaze, the puzzlement on her face betraying that she wasn't following what Edmund was saying any better than he could. "I gotta write this down. Liri, you still have my notebook, right?"

"Are you alright?" Oriana asked as Liri passed Edmund a leather-bound journal and he began rummaging in his bag for a quill and ink.

"Not really, but that's nothing new. Good news is that you will be," He said, flipping through it quickly. "Crestwood should be safe enough for a while. If, however, the fighting in Ostagar goes badly and things spread north—"

"Get on a ship and get to Antiva. Yes, we discussed that as well," Oriana said, nodding along.

"Oh. Wow, you guys are really on top of it." Edmund seemed to have found the page he was looking for, because he made a quick note before setting it aside. "Well… I guess it's all settled. All that's left is to get moving."

"For what it's worth…" Peter trailed off, not really sure how to continue. "I'm sorry about the templar."

Edmund quirked his head at him. "What do you mean?"

"I thought… I don't even know what I thought. You were behaving strangely in the castle when I first saw you. I thought it would be wise to take precautions." Peter watched Edmund's face fall as he put it together.

"You brought the templar? Why?"

"You made me uneasy," He said, unable to keep the defensive tone from his voice. "You were clearly up to something… and I was right. It just wasn't what I assumed."

"And yet, you didn't even give me a chance to explain myself before you went straight for the mage-hunter."

Peter had the thought that maybe, just maybe, he shouldn't have mentioned anything. "I jumped to conclusions, yes, but Ser Lidea was only there as a precautionary measure. To protect the people of the castle, just in case anything happened."

Edmund chuckled softly, but there was a spark of anger in his eyes. "Should have told her that."

Peter frowned and turned back towards the forest, unable to bring himself to look at the mage. "After what you've done, you don't get to lecture me about not knowing the outcomes of choices or what should have been dealt with differently. I did what I could with the information I had," he said without even looking over his shoulder. "Do you know if Ser Lidea survived the attack, at least?" She was only in the castle because he'd asked her there. If she'd died, it was his fault.

The mage was quiet. For a moment Peter didn't think he was going to answer.

"I don't know. I just ran."

So much for trying to apologize. "You should go back to sleep. We've got a while before it's light enough to continue."

Edmund shook his head. "Last thing I want to do right now is sleep. I can stay up with you guys on watch."

Peter shrugged. If it suited him. The four of them passed the rest of the time in uncomfortable silence. Oren began to stir just as the pale light of the morning illuminated the forest around them. Liri shook the other Wardens awake.

Soon, it would be time to leave. For good.

—

Duncan barely gave them enough time on the road to eat as they pushed forwards towards their destination. He didn't even allow Edmund's injury to slow them at all, though Aothor noted that the mage was making considerable efforts to keep himself from being a burden.

Oriana had taken the news about Highever's fall as well as anyone could expect, holding herself together for the sake of her son. Oren didn't seem to quite understand when she tried to explain it to him, but eventually the boy seemed to realize that they were not going home, and that he was going to play a game of pretend as a merchant's son called Anton.

Aothor could scarcely imagine dealing with something like this at such a young age. The boy was barely even old enough to grasp the concept of death, never mind the slaughter of his family.

Both of the human recruits were still sore towards one another about the previous events—whatever words were shared between them as he and Duncan slept were clearly not ones that brought them closer together.

Peter's angst was only increased when Duncan didn't allow for an overlong farewell to Oriana and Oren, dropping them off at the inn in Crestwood and ushering them out and on the road with little more than a "Goodbye," exchanged between them.

Aothor understood why Duncan did it. If Howe had men out searching for them still, they couldn't afford to linger. And they were already putting themselves behind schedule, back-tracking in such a way, and they needed to move quickly to make up for lost time.

From Crestwood they immediately turned their path towards Denerim, avoiding the King's Highway where they could and taking "shortcuts" along lesser known roads. They'd be spending less than a day in Denerim once they finally arrived, staying just long enough for Duncan to gather whatever materials he was there for and then taking to the road for Ostagar.

Highever had set something of a fire underneath them all, reminding them that there was pressure aimed at them from more than one point. Aothor had the terrible feeling that something big was coming to a head, and soon—or maybe that was just the lingering unease he still felt every time he caught a glimpse of the blue expanse hanging above them.

There was much to ponder as they journeyed. There were elements of Highever's fall that were painfully familiar—the betrayal sticking out notably in his mind. It was nothing compared to the intrigues and plots of the Assembly, but as far as human politics went it was downright nasty. Aothor mulled Duncan's words over in his mind, uncertain of what to do.

By the time they stopped for the night Peter's nervous energy had built up such that it was becoming contagious. Aothor noticed he kept looking over his shoulder, towards the north.

He pulled the young man aside, taking him along to get firewood. His war dog followed along, perpetually glued to her master's side.

"What's got you twisted in knots?" Aothor asked.

"Might be quicker to list what doesn't." Peter laughed humorlessly. He was quiet for a while, lifting dry branches into his arms for kindling. "Amaranthine is that way. Vigil's Keep. It's not even far," he said quietly after a moment.

Aothor looked at him expectantly. "And what's in Vigil's Keep?"

"Howe."

"Ah," he said, eyeing him carefully. "And what do you plan on doing about that?"

Peter met his gaze. "Nothing. I wouldn't stand a chance against him and all his men by myself. Much as I want him dead, I know there isn't anything I can do alone."

"I see. You're angry, but you're not stupid. Good thing, too. You'll survive longer that way." Aothor hummed thoughtfully, turning back to the task. "But I think there's more to it than that."

"Of course there is. What, have you not been paying attention? Did you completely miss all of last night?" Peter said, muscles working in his clenched jaw. Aothor simply looked at the man, waiting for him to continue. "I lost my home, betrayed by my family's closest ally. Likely everyone I grew up with is dead. I left my parents behind in a burning castle to die, and abandoned my sister-in-law and nephew to fend for themselves with no guarantee that I'll even be able to find Fergus, all while I get myself roped in to joining the damned Wardens—"

Peter cut himself off sharply, stopping mid-sentence and turning his gaze fixedly on the ground.

"Ah. Figured it was something about that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"The Wardens. You're scared."

Peter's head snapped towards him indignantly. "I am not scared."

"Not about joining the Wardens, though I'd bet it's related. Maybe you're not even scared of the darkspawn, though no one ever seems to be until they finally face them in person," Aothor said. He'd dealt with plenty of greenhorns who talked big up until the moment they faced a hurlock. But Peter's fear was different.

Peter scoffed, crossing his arms as he looked down at him. "Well, don't keep me in suspense. Tell me then, since you're so insightful."

He really should just leave it alone. It was best for people to deal with this thing in their own time, in their own way. But Aothor was concerned that unless confronted with it, Peter wouldn't deal with it at all.

"You're scared that joining the Wardens means that everything you were before will disappear." Silence hung in the air after he spoke. The quiet was its own sort of confirmation; he'd hit the nail on the head.

"And you'd be an expert on this kind of thing, would you?" Peter said, deflecting the statement weakly.

"Believe it or not, I didn't want to join the Wardens either." Aothor settled himself, leaning against a nearby tree. "But like you, here I am anyways."

Peter let out a long sigh, tousling his hair as he looked around desperately, like he was searching for a convenient excuse to leave the conversation. "So… are you saying that you also have a similar… concern?"

"Close enough to understand." He nodded. "Becoming a Warden was a choice that was made for you, but that doesn't mean you also don't have a choice."

"What do you mean? How is there a choice here? Seems pretty cut and dry to me."

"On the outside, certainly. But you can choose how you respond. You can allow everything from your past to fall away, cut yourself off from it so that you can pour yourself into this new role and be reformed by it. Or, you hold on to it, carry it with you. It might be heavier, but like a training weight it can serve to make you stronger."

Peter looked at him, curious now. "So what did you choose?"

Aothor tensed. "I believe that's my business. As this choice is yours." Though, given the traits the former noble had been displaying, it wasn't hard for Aothor to surmise what he would do.

He started back towards where the others were camped. Tomorrow morning they would arrive in Denerim. "Hang in there, Peter. You'll get through this, yet."

"Cousland," he said, new strength in his voice. "Call me Cousland."

—

"Wake up cousin!" Shianni jostled her side. Isefel sat straight up, smacking her head on the bunk above her. Shianni giggled. "Why are you still in bed? It's your big day!"

Isefel scowled, holding her head with one hand and rubbing the sleep from her eyes with the other. "Why are you in my room, Shianni?"

"Because I begged your father to let me share the good news. Had to bribe Tathas, too, and be grateful. The little menace was going to go straight for the cold-water approach," Shianni giggled. Isefel glared. Her cousins were going to be the death of her. "You _do _remember what today is, don't you?"

Isefel blinked, still trying to rid the clouds of sleep from her head. Staying out so late was doing magnificent things for her sleep schedule. Father said she was more owl than elf these days. Was it too much to ask for one day to sleep in? Just one? "Summerday?"

"No, you idiot. You're getting married today! And Soris too!" Shianni shook her head and offered a hand to Isefel to help her out of bed. "That's what I'm here to tell you. Your groom Nelaros… he's here early." Shianni was all but openly bouncing.

She sighed and turned and began to make her bunk. "I don't like the idea of this arranged match business."

Shianni just rolled her eyes. "And who else are you going to marry? Besides, I already snuck a peek - he's handsome. There's going to be music, decorations, feasting… weddings are so much fun. You're so lucky!"

"Maybe you should be the one getting married." Isefel said, only half-joking. If she was lucky, maybe she could convince Father and the elder to have Shianni get married instead of her… no, no way that would fly.

"All in good time, cousin. This is your day, not mine." Isefel gave her cousin a hard look, and Shianni looked away and sighed. They both knew this wasn't really her day. "All right, I'll stop tormenting you. I should talk to the other bridesmaids and find my dress. It's mysteriously disappeared. Tathas swears she didn't do it, but…" Shianni shook her head, turning. She paused in the doorway. "Oh, Soris says that he'll be waiting for you outside. So move it!"

Isefel opened the trunk in the corner of the room and pulled the white gown out from within. It was simple in it's cut, but the cloth was of fine quality. Her mother had worn this dress, some twenty-five years ago. Now it was her turn. And some day it would be Shianni's, then Tathas's. And then their daughters someday, if they had any.

It was a closer fit than they'd originally expected. She was apparently a few inches taller than her mother had been so the seems only needed to be let out a bit. Tathas did that back when her betrothal was first decided, and had even added some delicate embroidery around the neckline. If she ever stopped pulling ridiculous pranks or antagonizing the city guard, the kid might make a decent tailor someday.

"Ah, my little girl." Her father rose from his place in his favorite chair when she entered the living space. His smile was melancholy. "It's… the last time I'll really be able to call you that. Oh, I wish your mother could have been here."

Isefel fiddled with the blue sash of her gown. Everyone always said she was the spitting image of Adaia. Standing there in her wedding dress undoubtably brought up memories for him. She knew it did for her.

"Why today, father? You said you would hold this off as long as you could. And now it's all happening so suddenly. Just because my betrothed is early…"

Cyrion shrugged. "I don't know. I'm sure they had a good reason for sending him here early. The elder took it in stride, at least." Or maybe was the reason he was here early, Isefel suspected. "Maybe trouble was brewing in the Highever Alienage. Or the family didn't want your betrothed traveling so close to winter. Whatever the reason, I paid the dowry, the Chantry issued the permit, and everything… will work out fine. It's out of our hands now."

"But I don't want to get married." All her life she knew that this was the one choice she would never be able to make for herself. It was their custom, their way, done this way for generations, and yet she couldn't bring herself to take it quietly.

"I understand better than you might think. Before I met Adaia, I was ready to go hunt for the Dalish," he chuckled, "I know it's not ideal, but just be glad that I was the one who chose the match. Without parents to represent you, children like your cousins Soris and Tathas end up marrying… whoever the elder can find."

Isefel rubbed her temples. She'd barely been up and already a headache was forming. Maybe she should have just stayed in bed. "You've told me a bit before, but what else can you tell me about him?"

"Nelaros is from a good family in Highever, their youngest son. He's an expert at the blacksmith's anvil from what I'm told. He's quite handsome, too. Shianni was all but drooling earlier."

"She's not the only one," came a voice from the kitchen. Tathas leaned in the doorway, absentmindedly braiding her black waves of hair. "Nola and Eirania just walked by bemoaning the fact that he was betrothed to you and not one of them. Watch out, or you may find your groom stolen right out from under you."

"And what a shame that would be." Isefel raised a brow incredulously. "You seem to have found your bridesmaids dress. Shianni's is missing. You wouldn't know what became of it, would you?"

Tathas's dark eyes filled with doe-like innocence. So, she was definitely guilty. "And why would I do something like that?"

"Because Shianni caught you sneaking again last night dragged you back here by the scruff of your neck like a stray cat? Because you're spiteful and mischievous and would absolutely do something like that for kicks and giggles? Take your pick." Isefel faced the younger elf and crossed her arms over her chest, composing her face into what she hoped was a stern expression.

Tathas gazed studiously at the floor. Cyrion sighed. "Please girls, not today. Today is a special day." He placed a hand on Tathas's shoulder and raised her chin so she would meet his eyes. His voice was gentle as he spoke. "Would you get Shianni's dress, please?"

Somehow, Cyrion was always the only one who could get through to that child without raising his voice at all. Tathas wordlessly walked to the room she and Isefel shared, brushing past Isefel's shoulder a bit rougher then perhaps was necessary. Isefel turned to her father.

"I don't know how you can get through to her," said Isefel. Tathas certainly never listened to her.

Cyrion smiled at her, a strange kind of sadness lingering in his eyes. "Simple - I raised you. You say all that as if you didn't get into the very same antics when you were an unruly adolescent like her. As if you still aren't actively getting into those antics." Cyrion raised an eyebrow at her.

"That's… different. Father, she's just a child. A reckless kid with no regard for what's going to get her in an early grave."

"Technically, she is, I believe, old enough to be married herself. And headstrong enough that we're not able to restrain her actions, only channel them to a positive purpose. She looks up to you, Isefel. Even if she would never admit it. You were the one who trained her in the skills she has now, the same skills your mother passed on to you. If anything, this is a problem you created."

"You're… okay, I'll give you that much." Isefel slumped into a chair at the table as Tathas returned from the room, a dark green dress matching the one she wore cradled in her arm.

"There was a rip in the sleeve. I took it to fix it," she said. Defiance was still written over her expression, but it melted when Cyrion fixed her with a Look. "And may have kept it a day longer than I needed to because Shianni was being a bitch." Isefel gave her a Look. Tathas sighed. "Fine. She was being obnoxious. Can I go now?"

"Yes. You may go find Shianni and give her the dress with a full explanation of where it was." Cyrion said with a nod, and Tathas left without another word.

Isefel watched her go. It wasn't that Tathas was unskilled that worried her. It was that she always felt the need to test the line, that she seemed to thrive off trouble. That was simply part of her personality and would be true with training or without. "So I made this problem. How do I fix it?" Isefel asked after Tathas was gone. Cyrion smiled ruefully.

"Well, if you weren't just about to get married, I would suggest you take her with you more often when you go out at night. We cannot stop her from sneaking out all together, and truly I wouldn't want to stop her. But it's dangerous for a lone elven girl to wander a human city at night, no matter how skilled she is." Isefel knew there was some subtext there aimed at her. She only acknowledged it with a shrug. "So take her with you. You can look out for her and keep her from doing anything truly damaging, and she can have your back in turn. But, as I said, you're getting married now. That will be a little more challenging to do when you have a life of your own and no longer live with us."

"Ugh, don't remind me." Isefel stood back up.

"Alright, it's time for you to go find Soris. The sooner this wedding starts, the less chance you two have to escape."

Isefel sighed. She would very much like to escape. To leave, find her own life away from the traditions that would dictate her future. Instead, she pulled her father into a hug, noting in the back of her mind that she was taller than him now. "Thank you, Father."

"Think nothing of it. I'm only sorry I couldn't do more," He said, embracing her back, and released her after a moment. "Oh, one last thing before you go, my dear. Your martial training… the swordplay, the knives, and whatever else your mother trained you in. Best not to mention it to your betrothed."

"Wasn't planning on it. I take you didn't say anything?"

"Well, it's not something that would have made it any easier to find a match for you. We don't want to seem like troublemakers, after all. Adaia made that mistake." The look came back into his eyes, the one that only showed up when Mother was mentioned.

"Mother was a clever rogue."

"Yes. That she was. Clever, and beautiful, and brave. This world is not kind to brave elves." He sighed and dug into his pocket and pulled out a necklace. Two rings hanging together on a chain. "Here. I want you to have this. And so would Adaia." Isefel accepted the necklace, caressing the rings individually. Their rings. And now hers.

She opened her mouth to thank her father but words failed her. He smiled, though. He understood. He always did.

"Go on then. I still have some things to do, and Soris is no doubt waiting for you. I'll see you at the ceremony."


	11. A Wedding Broken (Part 2)

Edmund realized very quickly that the rough map of Denerim he had drawn in his journal was going to be nearly useless. Even if it was accurate, navigating the sprawling web of alleys and streets seemed nearly impossible. As he followed Duncan through the crowded streets he nearly got himself lost and separated from the others just trying to take everything in.

Every once in a while, when he caught a clear look over the tops of the buildings, he could see the rise of Fort Drakon in the distance. It loomed high above the rest of the city. In less than a year, it would host the final battle of the Blight. Edmund wondered if he'd still be around to see it.

Merchants hollered from their stands, attempting to lure customers for their wares. Kids played in the street, screaming as they chased one another through the crowds. Denerim was bustling and filled with life at every turn.

"What are we doing in the city, Duncan?" Cousland asked. "I thought you said we were headed to the army camp."

"We are," Duncan said without even a glance back at them. "I have a few short errands to run here in the city first, however, and there's an old friend of mine who lives here that I'd like to check in on while we have the chance. If everything goes smoothly, we will be on the road to Ostagar in less than a few hours."

"I think we should also restock," Aothor said. "It's at least another five days walk from here to Ostagar, and most of our travel gear was lost in Highever. I don't know about the rest of you, but I prefer sleeping on a bedroll to lying on the dirt."

"Here, here." Edmund said, nodding in agreement. He was getting more used to roughing it, but recently conditions had been… less than ideal.

"Cousland, how well do you know Denerim?" Duncan said, pausing their group to the side of the crowded street and turning to face them.

Cousland shrugged. "Well enough not to get lost. I've been to the city about a dozen times, and I could get to most any notable shop or location."

"You four can take care of replenishing our supplies. Everything we need can likely be found in the main market area." Duncan held out a purse of coins containing what little they had left over after making arrangements for Oren and Oriana and passed it to Cousland. "Once you're finished, head to the Gnawed Noble. I'll meet you there once I've finished my business."

Edmund frowned. He was planning on going to the alienage without them. That… would really throw a wrench in his whole 'stop Vaughan' plan. "Can't we come with you?"

"I can scarcely see the reason why that would be necessary," said Duncan, raising a brow at him in question. "It is going to be a quick visit to check in on a personal friend of mine—and I dare say bringing the rest of you along could quickly turn it into a whole affair."

Edmund wracked his brain, trying to think of some reasonably believable explanation that would get Duncan to go with him. "I feel like it's a bad idea to split the group up."

"Denerim might not be the safest place, true. But I suspect the back-alley thugs and purse-snatchers will be nothing to worry about, especially compared what we have only recently dealt with," Duncan said. "The only real concern we should have is that Howe could have men in the city searching for survivors from Highever. While he could have no way of knowing of any survivors, it is only a matter of time until that changes. It would be best for us to remain as discreet as possible while in the city."

"But what if something happens?" Edmund asked. It would be so much easier if he could just tell them about Vaughan, about the wedding. He considered doing so right then, only he had no idea how he was supposed to phrase that information so they'd believe him. Realistically, he should have no clue about what was about to happen. He could use the whole 'a spirit told me' thing, but even though it'd worked in the past, he had the sinking feeling that it wouldn't cut it going forward. Duncan barely bought it as it was, and there was no way at all it'd fly with the likes of Cousland.

"What makes you think anything would happen?" Cousland said, eyeing Edmund with open suspicion.

Edmund tried to ignore it. One would think that after spending a month under the watchful presence of the templars he'd be used to people looking at him with open distrust. One would be wrong. "Honestly, just look at our track record. Anytime we stop someplace something always goes down. Blood mages, crime syndicates, coups, betrayals… I'm just saying we have some wild luck."

"_You know, he's kind of got a point."_ Liri said, thoughtful. _"We seem to find trouble wherever we go. It's probably a good idea to not get caught with our pants down."_

Aothor chuckled softly as he finished translating. "As my old tutor used to say: 'Look for chaos, seek out darkness, and not far from there ye shall find Wardens.' I don't know if we so much find trouble as we just bring it with us."

"An interesting saying," said Duncan, amused. "Very well. Liri, would you be willing to accompany me to the alienage?"

"_Sure thing,"_ Liri said with a shrug.

The disappointment must have showed on his face, because Duncan gave him a very pointed look. "One human is likely to cause enough of a stir. Tensions have been rising in the alienage recently, and I'd rather not cause an incident with our presence. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Commander." Edmund gritted his teeth. If he couldn't be there himself… he'd have to count on Liri to get involved. Having her there would no doubt change things. And admittedly, out of the three other recruits besides himself, he trusted her the most by a longshot. Sure, Aothor seemed like a decent man, from what little he'd observed, and it was more of a personal dislike for Cousland… but still.

"Excellent. Now, unless there is anything else…?" Duncan said. At their collective silence he nodded, turning away from them and gesturing for Liri to follow.

Liri lingered a moment._ "Hey, make sure you watch your pockets. Looks like lots of the kids in this square have sticky fingers." _

"Is that a professional assessment, then?" Cousland asked, more amused than anything else. Despite the noble's initial appalment that Liri had successfully stolen from his family, gratitude for her actions seemed to dominate over any lingering bitterness. Edmund wondered how he could get that to work towards him. The bitterness and suspicion was going to get old real quick.

"_Watch it, or I'll start charging fees for my advice next time," _she said, turning and following after Duncan into the crowd.

Edmund watched them go for a moment before following Cousland and Aothor into the market. Maybe it would work out better this way. Sure, he might not be able to stop Vaughan from attacking the wedding, but that was kind of the catalyst that set in motion Tabris's whole recruitment anyways.

Without Tabris killing Vaughan and all his men, there would be no need for Duncan to conscript them. He also didn't know if Tabris was male or female. He'd only ever played a male city elf in the games, but he knew that the origin played out differently depending.

There was also the sinking possibility that Tabris could take Vaughan's offer and abandon Shianni. So far, Liri, Aothor, and Peter seemed to make all the "good" choices in their own origins, but there was no guarantee that would be the case here. And he really didn't want to leave anything to chance.

But there was nothing stopping him from breaking into Vaughan's estate and getting a jump start on the rescue process.

Edmund eyed his fellow recruits as they haggled with a merchant over the price of a tent. Amendment: two things were potentially stopping him from breaking into Vaughan's estate.

There was no way he could do it on his own, that was for certain. He didn't even have the slightest clue on how to find the estate. Neither would Aothor. Cousland might. But he would be the most difficult to convince.

Being straightforward and honest—without actually being honest at all—had worked with Liri. It could work in this situation, too. Maybe he should extend some faith to these two.

"So… how do the two of you feel about breaking and entering?" Edmund stepped forward, matching the pace of his companions, which quickly ground to a halt as he spoke.

Cousland glanced back at him. "Why, are you taking a survey?"

"Yup. A poll of opinions."

"Well, seeing as my home was recently broken into and entered by a bunch of soldiers trying to kill me and my family…" Cousland said with mock consideration. "No. Not a fan. So, you can mark that down."

Edmund flinched a little under the harshness of his tone. Maybe that hadn't been the best way to open this line of conversation.

"What's this really about, Edmund?" Aothor asked evenly.

"Alright. So. Here's the thing. I need to break into the Arl of Denerim's estate to—"

"You need to _what_?" Cousland interrupted, "Are you absolutely mental?"

Edmund rolled his eyes. He knew this wouldn't be easy. "Yes, I'm probably crazy, but that's not the current issue. What is important is that Vaughan Kendells is going to abduct a bunch of elven girls from the alienage. You get one guess what he wants them for."

Cousland looked genuinely shocked. "You can't be serious."

"I am extremely serious. I can't do anything about it on my own. If we're going to help, we'll have to do it together."

"I—this is ridiculous. I can't believe this." Cousland shook his head in open disbelief.

Aothor sighed, rubbing his brow tiredly. He seemed more agitated than surprised. "You're going to have to give us more than that, Edmund. What's your source for this supposed abduction? We've been in the city less than an hour, and you've been with us the entire time."

Leave it to Aothor to cut right to the question he didn't want to answer. He was able to pull out some bullshit about politics to convince Liri in Highever, but there was no clear justifiable way he could have information about something Vaughan hadn't even decided to do yet. His excuse to Duncan about his foreknowledge coming from spirits was barely holding up, and he didn't think it'd even work on these two.

He'd already extended a little faith. He could give a little more if he ever hoped to receive some. "The same way I knew that Highever was going to be attacked. Look, explaining more than that is going to take up time that we don't really have. But I promise I will explain, eventually. I have something of a plan to get the girls out of the estate safely, but I can't do it without your help. If we can help them at all hinges entirely on you two."

Aothor paused. It looked like the former might be considering his words, but Peter's face was hardened. Fantastic. Edmund sincerely hoped that Cousland wasn't the type of man to let his own problems with how he'd handled the situation at Highever affect his decision to help deal with Vaughan.

"Cousland, you're from the circle of the Ferelden nobles. You tell us—what's Lord Vaughan's reputation? Is he the type of man to do something like this?" Aothor asked.

Peter sighed. "I've never met him myself; our families weren't close. Arl Urien himself is a decent enough man, and a close advisor to King Cailan. As for Vaughan… what little I've heard of him isn't very complimentary. His father never bothered to parent him properly as I understand, just gave Vaughan whatever he wanted to keep him quiet and out of the way."

"Permissive parenting does tend to be a quick avenue to entitlement." Aothor said, a considering look in his eye. "Entitlement can lead men to terrible things."

"It's worse than that," Edmund said, trying to stress the urgency. "Vaughan isn't just terrible, he's a waste of oxygen. The only reason he's been getting away with everything so far is because he abuses the people who can't fight back, and whenever any backlash hits he's got a legion of guards to hide behind as well as his position."

"It doesn't even matter. This is the Arl's son—a lord of Ferelden. We can't do anything." Said Aothor, shaking his head.

To Edmund's surprise, Cousland beat him to the objection.

"What do you mean, we can't do anything? If what Edmund's saying is true, then we can't just leave them there," He said. It was hardly a glowing endorsement, but Edmund took some confidence in Cousland's moral compass at least pointing him in the correct direction.

Aothor, however, was beginning to concern him.

"We won't just leave them there." Aothor was already on the move, heading across the market. Edmund and Cousland shared a confused look before starting off after the dwarf. "We will alert the guards and have them deal with the situation."

Edmund matched the dwarf's pace, half turning his body to look down at Aothor, Cousland positioning himself similarly. "The guards won't do shit. This kind of thing has been going on for years, and they've never done anything. We're Grey Wardens. Our whole purpose is to protect people, to defend those who aren't able to defend themselves—"

"Yes, from darkspawn. I don't think this is something we can get ourselves involved in. We're not supposed to get involved with the political realm."

Edmund scoffed. "Someone needs to send that memo on to Weisshaupt, then." Grey Wardens aren't political: or in his opinion, one of the biggest lies in the game, right up there with 'I can pick locks.'

Aothor gave him a hard look, but Edmund held his gaze. Neither of them wanted to budge. "The situation in Ferelden is delicate. We have to be careful with our involvements. Your heart is in the right place, Edmund, but it's out of our hands—"

The three of them were so focused on the discussion as they moved that they walked right into a group of kids, completely cutting off the conversation. They all stumbled briefly, the sudden collision knocking them off balance and the kids on the ground.

"Watch where ya goin!" An elven girl no older than twelve snapped, springing to her feet before Edmund could even offer to help her up.

"Bugger off, can't ya see what's in front of ya eyes?" said another, spitting in their direction as he stood.

No sooner were the handful of kids back on their feet than they took off again, knocking roughly into their sides as they ran past and into the business of the market.

The three of them watched them briefly before turning back to each other.

"Charming kids," said Aothor dryly.

"That's Denerim hospitality for you," said Cousland.

Edmund watched them go a while longer. The elven girl lead the group, the others racing after her. It wasn't long before he lost track of her blonde head in the crowd of adults. He couldn't shake the thought that… but what were the odds.

Whether he was right or not, an even more concerning thought struck his mind. As Cousland and Aothor dug back into the argument about what to do and what not to do, Edmund reached into his bag.

Empty. Everything was gone, codex journal included.

"Guys!" Edmund said, grabbing their attention. "Liri's warning—the kids. Check your bags."

Realization dawned on their faces and they each reached into their bags.

"Andraste's tits, the little brats took all our money." Cousland scowled, quickly scanning the crowd around them.

"Must have had others sneak up behind us while we were focused on the ones we knocked over. We shouldn't have let ourselves get so distracted." Aothor scowled, already stalking in the direction the kids had run, Peter moving right behind him. "What was that you were saying about Denerim's hospitality?"

They didn't have time for this. Why couldn't things just work out for once? Was that really too much to ask from the universe?

Edmund followed after his companions, scanning the crowd for little elven girl. Hopefully this would be quick.

—

The alienage was bustling with elves. Even though it was late fall, the sun was warm and most congregated in the shadow of the Vhenadhal. She knew the names of most everyone in the crowd, and if she didn't she at least recognized their face. Such is the way of alienage life.

She'd just said farewell to and turned away from some old friends' of her mothers when she collided with a young boy no older than seven. Before she could even get another word out, a little elf girl his age ran up and hit him on the shoulder

"Wham! You're dead."

"Hey, no fair! She stopped me." The boy glared at Isefel in accusation.

She mussed his hair. "Sorry kid," said Isefel, dusting off her dress. "What game were the two of you playing?"

"Heroes and humans. She made it up."

"We each choose someone from the elder's stories and do furious battles. I always win!"

"That's cause you cheat!" The boy reached over and pulled one of her pigtails, and she responded by laughing and yanking his ear.

"Why humans? Why not play as elves?"

"Do you know any stories about elven heroes?"

Isefel faltered. Not… not really. "Sure, I know a story."

"You do?"

Isefel grinned, a bit of mischief creeping into her eyes. "Yes. It's about… Tathas, the sneaky elven bandit." Her cousin was a thief, after all.

"Did Tathas steal from the humans?" The girl asked, eyes wide. Isefel was sure Tathas stole from just about anyone with enough coin.

"She stole from the rich and gave to the poor." Sometimes she stole from the rich and bought sweets for herself from the market square baker. "And then, she built a massive sky castle and made a new kingdom where all the people could be happy."

"Did Tathas ever get caught?"

"Nobody knows. She just disappeared one day, and her magic castle vanished. But legends say that she hid her gold all over the land, and that if young elves were clever and kind, they could find a way to uncover her riches."

"Hooray! I'm going to be Tathas."

"No, me!" The boy cried out.

"I'm Tathas. I'm going to steal all your money for my family."

Without another word to her the two ran off, chasing each other around the Vhenadhal. Isefel smiled fondly as they went off. She remembered playing make believe with her cousins and friends when they were that young. Remembered watching Tathas run around with the other orphans as they pretended to be knights dueling dragons.

It was terrible, she thought, that the children had no heroes like them to look up to. Until an elf saved the world, these kids would have to settle for make-believe.

But the made-up stories weren't so bad, maybe.

Amidst all those that waved at her and called out congratulations, there were some that stood out to her in the crowd. A group of elves she recognized were huddled together, their somber demeanor clashing terribly with the otherwise cheery ambiance.

Nessa stood on the outskirts of the crowd with her parents, who were loading a cart.

"Nessa?" The read-headed elf nearly leapt out of her skin at Isefel's voice. Nessa turned to her and Isefel could see by the red swell around her eyes that her friend had been crying. "Nessa, what's wrong?"

Nessa shook her head, staying silent as instead her parents approached. "Many blessings, young one. We hoped to stay for the celebration, but we must be off."

Isefel saw the fear in her Nessa's eyes. "Where are you going?"

"The Ostagar ruins. The army camp is calling for laborers," she said in a small voice.

"We wanted to look for work in Highever…"

"…But that's just not possible."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Isefel asked, trying very hard not to sound desperate. Nessa was one of her oldest friends. Back when they were kids, the four of them—Soris, Shianni, Nessa and herself—got into all kinds of trouble together. First the wedding, now this… everything was changing, moving on too fast.

"You're still a child." Nessa's father dismissed her with a wave of his arm. "Enjoy your special day, and put us out of your mind."

"What my husband means is that… you're very generous, but we don't need charity to solve our problems."

"I… I suppose I can understand that. Good luck, and stay safe." Nessa's parents were known throughout the community for being stubborn. Usually about the right things. But this…

"Many thanks. Again, blessings on your day." And without another word, he and his wife turned back to loading the cart.

Nessa reached out and placed a hand on her arm to stop her from going. "Sorry about them. You know how they are - too proud to admit they need help, let alone ask for it." Nessa took a deep breath, calming herself down. "I'm sorry about the wedding, by the way. I know you always talked about wanting to make this choice yourself."

"It's okay. I knew this was coming, sooner or later. I'm just glad I have Soris as a companion in suffering."

"I'm sure you'll both manage just fine," she said, smiling weakly. "My parents will labor in the army camp and expect me to do the same, but… I don't like the idea of being surrounded by human soldiers who haven't seen a woman in months."

Isefel heard enough stories to imagine the possibilities. Just the though had her fingers twitching for her knives. "Maybe you should stay here."

"I would, but my father would have to believe I have some sort of future here."

Coin. It always came down to coin, in the end. "Would some money help?"

"Of course, but I can't imagine anyone here has much to spare. We'd need another three silvers to make it to Highever. And if we got another ten silvers, we could rent a house here. Maybe one large enough to start a business. But… that's just dream talk. Nobody has that much money and if they did, why would they give it to us?"

"Because you're worth it." She'd collected wedding gifts from some of her mothers old friends. She had three silver sitting in her purse. Isefel counted out the coins and pressed them into Nessa's hand, leaving her with only four coppers to herself. She wished she had more. She wished Nessa didn't have to leave. But at least she would be safe. "Go to Highever. Build a life for yourself."

"W-where did you get this much money? Never mind, I'm sure not talking you out of this. Thank you! Thank you so much! You saved my family!" Isefel found herself wrapped in a hug, Nessa squeezing so tight she could swear she heard ribs cracking. Nessa seemed to regain herself after a moment, releasing her. "Sorry. But really. Thank you. I suppose I should… handle the parents. Good luck with your wedding. Maybe we'll meet again someday."

"Yeah. Maybe." It didn't feel like she'd done enough. Like walking through a fog, Isefel wound her way through the alienage to find Soris.

"Well, if it isn't my lucky cousin. Care to celebrate the end of our independence together?" Soris called out from where he leaned against a small tree, holding out a flask.

"Maker, yes." Isefel accepted the flask and took a long drink. "Is running away still an option?"

Soris actually laughed. "Are you insane? Where would we go? Into the woods to live with the Dalish elves? Not that we'd know how to find them, if they're even real. Besides, I hear your groom's a dream-come-true. My bride sounds like a dying mouse." Soris took the flask back and placed it on a nearby crate and straightening his formal wear. "Come on, let's go introduce you to your dreamy betrothed before you say 'I do.'"

"Soris! Ah, there's the man of the hour." A familiar elf ran up to them, panting just slightly out of breath. "I've been looking for you everywhere. Tathas said I might find you here."

"Taeodore, I wondered where you were at. Oh, excuse my manners. This is my cousin Isefel, the bride. The other bride… not my bride!" Soris clasped the man's hand in greeting.

"We've met on occasion, though I'm better acquainted with your cousin Tathas. She runs deliveries for my father's business from time to time. Blessings on the day, to both of you."

"Poor Soris isn't feeling very blessed. Can't say I'm feeling any different."

"True enough," sighed Soris, "Still, better to marry and have a real life than to remain a child."

"There's something you should know, Soris. My brothers won't be coming. They… left to find the Dalish, you see."

"You mean the elves who supposedly live in the woods?" asked Isefel. They seemed to be coming up more and more lately. Maybe they weren't just an urban legend after all.

"Unfortunately, yes." Taeodore confirmed. "Alarith swears that Dalish elves saved him on his way to Denerim. Nonsense, if you ask me."

"That does sound ridiculous," said Isefel.

"I agree. The king wouldn't just let elves run free through his woods."

"Well, I wouldn't worry too much about it. They were probably just taken in by another old story. Taeodore, it was great seeing you. I'm sure your brothers will turn up in a few days, embarrassed and hungry." Soris gave the man a reassuring smile.

"I hope so. But I should go—best wishes to the both of you."

Taeodore let them pass by. Soris nudged her shoulder as they walked. "You nervous?"

"I… yeah, a bit. It's just surprising, you know?" Isefel said, tightening her blue sash as they walked.

"I know what you mean. They weren't supposed to come here until late spring, but the elder arranged for them to be sent early for some reason."

Isefel raised a brow. "So Valendrian is behind this after all."

"I suppose," Sorris shrugged, "But he must have a good reason for it. He was probably scared you'd leave or something."

Nothing to be done about it now, she supposed. The wedding parties were beginning to gather around the platform, hanging small wildflowers plucked from the river form the sides of surrounding buildings.

She didn't know if she could really leave Denerim. She didn't know where else she would go. Maybe just travel around Ferelden. Could she become a mercenary, maybe? Most companies didn't take women, let alone elven women. But still, surely there was more to life than an existence within the walls of the city. There was a whole world out there.

A familiar dark-haired figure waited for them at the other side of the square. Isefel immediately prepared for trouble, but Tathas didn't have that usual manic gleam in her eyes.

"What did you do this time?" Isefel put her hands on her hips and looked down at the younger elf, who only rolled her eyes.

"Nothing. Much. I…" Tathas shuffled in place. She produced a beautiful crown of pale blue flowers from behind her back. "I couldn't think of a wedding present to give you that someone else hadn't already gotten, so…" Tathas trailed off, holding the crystal grace crown out to Isefel, along with a small pouch. Isefel took the crown and opened the pouch, revealing seeds.

Isefel sighed. There were only one bush of the extremely rare medicinal flowers in the entire city. "You broke into Bann Ceorlic's estate gardens… to steal flowers?"

Tathas snorted. "Not like it was hard. Most every estate is understaffed these days. King and his nobles are bringing all their men south for something. Monsters rising out of the Wilds, from what I've gathered."

"One of these days you're going to get caught," Soris muttered, shaking his head.

Fire filled her dark eyes. "I did get caught. Remember?" Tathas tiled her head to one side, her hair falling to reveal her clipped ears. "I got caught. So I got good."

Isefel knew when to pick her battles with Tathas. And right now, she couldn't fight this one. Not without being extremely hypocritical. So instead, she put the flower crown on.

"You always did look good in blue, cousin." Tathas smiled, pulling her hair back over her ears. "Nelaros won't know what hit him. Come on, Shianni and the rest of your bridal party are ogling him now."

Tathas fell in step behind Isefel and Soris. Shianni spotted them approaching and waved them over. Human men approached from behind where Shianni stood.

The hairs on her neck stood up, and Tathas caught her eye. She felt it too, the silent alarm bells going off in their minds. They quickened their pace towards where the bridal party stood completely unaware.

The leader of the group grabbed Nola. Enough to startle her, but not strong enough to keep the woman from slipping out of his grasp. "Stop, please!" Nola cried, pulling a way and running to hide behind Soris. Who was hiding behind Isefel and Tathas.

"It's a party, isn't it? Grab a whore and have a good time. Savor the hunt, boys. Take this precious little elven wench, here…" The man turned to Tathas, who somehow had managed to move from Isefel's side to stand next to Shianni without Isefel noticing. If she wasn't busy being disgusted that this grown man was speaking like that about a bloody sixteen-year-old, she might have had time to be a little impressed her cousin moved so quick.

"You touch any of us, and I'll gut you, you pig!" Shianni pulled Tathas behind her. The move could have been seen as protective, but they both knew that Tathas was three seconds short of shanking the man then and there. And they didn't need that kind of trouble brought down on them.

"Please, my lord, we're celebrating weddings, here!" One of Soris's friends said, his voice shakier than a leaf in the breeze. The human didn't even look at him.

"Silence, worm!" The human backhanded the elf so hard he fell to the ground.

"I know what you're thinking, but maybe we shouldn't get involved." Soris whispered, eying the human group warily.

"If I don't do something, Shianni is going to get herself killed. Or Tathas will kill him. And then we'll all be killed." Isefel said, already starting towards the humans.

"Fine. But let's try to be diplomatic, shall we?" Soris followed after her. She needed to talk them down. The only weapon she had on her was a small knife slipped into her boot, and besides, she really didn't want to get blood on her dress.

"What's this? Another one come to keep me company?" The human said, turning from Shianni to Isefel. Isefel kept an eye on her red-headed cousin just long enough to see her turn and run. She turned her attention fully to the man in front of her, who was standing entirely too close for comfort. His breath was bad, but not from ale.

He wasn't a drunken ass, then. Just a disgusting one.

"You need to leave at once."

"Hah! You hear that, Vaughan?" One of the human lackey's scoffed.

The human scoffed. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

"Yes. You're leaving." Isefel said firmly. He raised his hand to strike. Isefel prepared to catch the blow, but it never landed.

The man fell to his knees. Shianni stood behind him, holding the remains of a now shattered glass bottle. Isefel blinked in surprise. She would have expected that from Tathas, not as much from Shianni.

The human's lackeys sprang to action, running to his side. "Are you insane? This is Vaughan Kendells, the arl of Denerim's son!"

That… she also had not been expecting. She looked down at his unconscious form. Isefel had never met the man, but she knew of the reputation attached. Only a year ago he'd assaulted Vuena, the daughter of the alienage's blacksmith, a girl no older than seventeen. She was barely alive when they'd recovered her, and even to this day the previously peppy elven girl had yet to regain herself. No one could be sure she ever would.

Vuena was just the most recent victim, or the most recent one to survive and tell about it at least. Over the years there had been many stories like hers, more than they even heard about no doubt, and every time they were helpless to do anything about it.

Isefel suddenly found herself regretful that she'd resisted the urge to go for her knives.

Shianni when whiter than a wedding dress. "W-what?! Oh, Maker…"

"Maybe his father should have taught him better manners." Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the humans heard Tathas's words.

Isefel stood in line with her cousin, the two of them a shield between the remaining humans and the others. "Take him home. If you don't mention this, we won't." Don't let this blow up on them. Maker, let them forget this. Much as she wanted to end the lordling's life, the repercussions would cost them nearly more than it would be worth.

"You've a lot of nerve, knife-ears. This'll go badly for you," the human seethed. Mercifully, the two bent and collected their unconscious lord.

"Oh, I really messed up this time." Shianni said. Isefel noticed that she was still extremely pale, and physically shaking to boot.

"It'll be alright. He won't tell anyone an elven woman took him down." Soris's voice was full of confidence. It was fake, but it was confidence. And that helped Shianni calm down.

"I hope so. I should probably go get cleaned up," Shianni said, and even managed to walk away calmly. Without a word, Tathas followed after her.

"Is everybody else alright?" Soris asked the rest of the bridal party.

"I think we're just shaken. What was that all about?" asked the elven woman Isefel didn't recognize. She wore a distinctly white gown that marked her as the other bride.

Soris rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and laughed nervously. "Looks like the Arl's son started drinking too early."

He wasn't drunk. But they didn't need to know what. No need to worry them with the fact that their new local lord regularly harassed the elves he ruled over. That was a conversation for another time.

"Um, well, let's not let this ruin the day. Uh, this is Valora, my betrothed," Soris's betrothed was in fact a very mousy woman, but she had a sweet demeanor about her.

"Then that would make you my betrothed." She said to the man standing beside Valora. He was pretty enough to look at, she supposed. Fair in everything, from his hair to the paleness of his blue eyes.

"A pleasure." The elf in question inclined his head politely, "Soris said much of you—some of it was even positive."

Isefel glanced at Soris, who held up his hands in surrender. "Hey, I just wanted to give him a sporting chance to run," he laughed. "I'm… sure the two of you have a lot to discuss."

Soris and Valora stepped to the side, giving each couple a very small amount of privacy in conversation.

"Well, here we are. Are you nervous?"

Yes.

"No. You?" Isefel shrugged.

"I thought I'd stay calm, but finally seeing you has made me… well, let's just say I'm not calm."

"I promise I'm not as scary as whatever Soris told you. How do you feel about moving to Denerim?"

"It was hard to leave Highever," he said, already sounding homesick. "but your father's matchmaker spoke highly of you, and rightfully so. Denerim itself seems friendlier than Highever… perhaps because it's so large that humans take less notice of us."

"I can scarcely image the nightmare you've come from, that you find being welcomed by an aggressive human lord seems 'friendlier.'"

"Well no, I meant in general. But… that… happens here often?"

"Often enough. Vaughan himself has never come to the alienage personally before, but his troops are all too content to harass elves who are out past sundown." Nelaros's eyes widened, and Isefel immediately regretted her words. Way to roll out the welcome wagon.

"Come on, Isefel. We should let them get ready." Soris said, nudging her arm.

"We'll see you two in a bit. Don't disappear on us." Valora said, only partially joking.

Nelaros took Valora's arm and escorted her towards the platform where the ceremony would be held.

"Well? What did you think?" Soris asked.

"He's kind. I don't think I'm in danger of loving him, but maybe we could be friends."

"Small victories, right? And what do you think about Valora?"

"She's very sweet. And quite taken with you already, if I'm any judge. I think you two could be happy together."

"You think?" Blush rose in Soris's cheeks. "I mean, if you think so, then maybe. You're the best judge of character I've ever met, cousin."

"True. Just as long as you don't mess it up."

Soris laughed, but stopped short and froze perfectly still, staring at something over Isefel's shoulder. "Don't look now, but we have another problem."

—

Colored strips of paper strung from the branches of the great tree waved softly in the mid-morning breeze. Red and yellow flowers decorated every fence and doorpost.

The tension in the air clashed horribly with the festive decorations.

At his side, Duncan noted that Liri was ever observant, taking every detail in. Every day was something new for her to discover about the surface world, discovering things she'd never even heard about as a casteless. Both she and Aothor had been adjusting remarkably well, all things considered. Each day promised new experiences, and they adapted quickly to each.

Duncan had no doubt that she also sense something was amiss.

All the elves that noticed his presence in the alienage leapt at the sight of them and scurried away quickly. This was one of the main reasons why Duncan had wanted to come alone. The presence of additional humans would have alarmed them even greater. Even Liri, though a dwarf, seemed to cause an extra layer of unease from the locals.

But the anxiety fueling their actions was more than the apprehension he expected. As if he and Liri carried the plague the elves all gave them a wide berth of space. All the elves, except two.

A blonde elf approached him, her steps marked with purpose. The snow-white gown she wore identified her as the bride-to-be. A second elf followed at her heels, though a great deal more nervous than his companion.

Duncan bowed to the elven woman, which she clearly had not been expecting. "Good day. I understand congratulations are in order for your impending wedding."

"Thanks, but please be on your way. I would like to avoid any unpleasantness." Her voice was calm, but her grey eyes shone like silverite.

"What manner of unpleasantness might you be referring to?" Duncan raised a brow, awaiting her reaction. She was brave enough to approach an unknown and armed human, without weapons of her own. Her hands were clasped gently behind her back, but she was poised to move at a seconds notice. Interesting indeed.

Eyes like silverite and unwavering courage—this was, without a doubt, Adaia's daughter.

The woman shook her head, almost as if she were annoyed. "The alienage simply isn't a good place for humans to be. Not even a great place for dwarves." Her eyes hung overlong on their very visible weaponry.

"I'm sorry, but I have no intention of leaving." A challenge laid out. But how would she respond to it?

"You have business here, then?"

"I do. And I cannot leave until it is concluded. Though it seems I may already have found what I was seeking."

"Then you will be leaving?"

"I am sorry. I cannot go just yet."

"I see." She stared at him a moment longer and nodded, decided on something to herself. "Very well. We will have to compromise. There has already been an incident here today, and for our safety as well as your own you'll need an escort while you are here. The ceremonies are not to start for another while, so I shall accompany you until your business is concluded, and then you will be on your way. Does that sound fair?"

Duncan smiled. And there was the Cyrion in her, ever the diplomat. Liri shifted at his side, and he followed her gaze out to see an aged elf approaching them now. "Remarkable. She keeps her composure, even when facing down an unknown and armed human. Not only that, but negotiates to accommodate in such a way that allows for continued surveillance of the possible threat. A true gift. Wouldn't you say, Valendrian?"

The bride-to-be glanced over at the elder as he approached, posture relaxing, while her companion startled and jumped.

"I would say the world has far more use for those who know how to stay their blades," the elder said, giving the young woman a knowing look.

A small smile pulled at her mouth, and she moved her hands from behind her back, giving Duncan a glance at a small blade held in one hand, clutched so that it was mostly concealed. She feigned at adjusting her dress, and had he not been watching closely he would have missed that she slipped the dagger into her boot.

Valendrian clasped Duncan's arm "It is good to see you again, my old friend. It has been far too long. And who is your companion?"

"This is Liri Brosca, a recent recruit," said Duncan as Liri waved in greeting. Valendrian stiffened, giving Duncan a look of warning. So Valendrian was one step ahead of him, yet again.

"You could have warned me you were expecting company, elder." The blonde elf shook her head and inclined it in Duncan's direction. "I'm sorry. I had no idea. And with the way today has been going, well… I wasn't going to leave anything to chance."

"I was hardly forthcoming, and for that I apologize."

"May I present Duncan, head of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. Duncan, this is Soris and Isefel Tabris." Valendrian made introductions, if but a bit begrudgingly.

"I feel like I should know this, but… what's a Grey Warden?" Isefel asked.

"They are a great order of heroes, child, sworn to protect our world from the darkspawn. But my question remains unanswered. Why are you here, Duncan?"

Duncan's voice was heavy as he spoke. "The worst has happened. A Blight has begun. King Cailan summons the Grey Wardens to Ostagar to fight the darkspawn horde along with his armies."

"I've heard about that. Some of the elves from this alienage were going to go south to work in the army camps, and the nobles are leaving their estates under guarded because all their troops are going south." Isefel said, more to herself than to any of the men present.

The elder shrugged, giving Duncan an irritated sort of glance. "Still, this is an awkward time. There is to be a wedding—two, in fact."

Duncan gave Valendrian a knowing look. He'd done the exact same thing today as he had done twenty-three years ago. He couldn't begrudge him wanting to keep his people together, but a Blight was coming. Why was it now, in this time of crisis, that everyone began on insisting on such thing? He sighed. "So I see. By all means, attend your ceremonies."

"Very well. Children, treat Duncan as my guest. And for the Maker's sake, take your places!" Valendrian turned, indicating the younger elves should follow him.

"Please, do not let me interrupt further." Soris followed after the elder, but Isefel stayed put. "Was there something else?"

"How do you know the elder? Please don't take this wrong, but you're not the sort who he normally associates with."

"Oh? And what sort does he normally associate with?"

Isefel laughed. "Well, for starters, none of his other friends are allowed to carry weapons."

Duncan chuckled. "I suppose that is a fair observation. Valendrian and I have known each other since the time I tried to recruit your mother, in fact."

"You-you tried to recruit my mother?" Isefel was evidently shocked. Duncan frowned. He would have assumed someone had told her that. If not Adaia herself, then perhaps Cyrion or Valendrian.

"I did. Your mother was a fiery woman. She would have made an excellent Grey Warden." He remembered Adaia fondly. The first time they'd met, she pulled a knife on him and threatened to gut him. Those were simpler times.

"So what happened? Obviously, she didn't join."

"No. I never made the offer. Valendrian convinced me it was better for her to remain with her family. You had just been born the year before, and her place was with you. As there was no Blight and thus no need for recruits, I deferred to Valendrian's wished. But it seems she passed that training on to you, am I right?"

To her credit, Isefel schooled her expression to one of perfect confusion and innocence. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Duncan laughed. "Worry not, girl. You do not need to fear my mentioning this to anyone else. But we can speak more of this later. You have a wedding to attend."

"Don't remind me." Isefel muttered, turning away to join the rest of the bridal party on the platform.

Liri looked up at him, brow raised. _"Not gonna recruit her?"_

Duncan sighed, shaking his head. He'd decided to look into the matter because of Edmund's claim that she would survive the Joining, like the others would supposedly also. If that was true, not recruiting her would be a waste.

But with these four and the two awaiting in Ostagar, he already had six, already double what he originally anticipated. He watched as the elves began assembling on the platform, cheerful music filling the air.

Duncan turned, making for the gate. "I will return once again right before we depart for a word with the elder. I believe he could be reasoned with. We need as many Grey Wardens as possible if we are to face what is to come." He still needed to retrieve an additional vial of archdemon blood from the vault. "Let's find the others first."

—

Most everyone in the alienage was gathered by now. Isefel took her place beside Nelaros on the podium. Shianni stood opposite her, beside Soris, giggling and laughing with Nola. Tathas occupied the position to her side not filled by Neleros.

"Ooh, Soris! There you are. I was afraid you'd run off," said Valora.

"No, I'm here, with Nelaros's blushing bride in tow."

Isefel rolled her eyes. She definitely wasn't "blushing."

"You look radiant," Nelaros said. If anyone was blushing, it was definitely him. Mother Boann arrived not moments later.

"It looks like everyone's ready." Soris sighed and adjusted his vest.

"Let's get this over with." Maybe it wouldn't be so bad as she'd feared. Nelaros was kind and seemed like a decent enough man. Maybe it would all work out.

"Friends and family, today we celebrate not only this joining, but also our bonds of kin and kind." Valendrian spoke, addressing the community gathered before them. "We are a free people, but this was not always so. Andraste, the Maker's prophet, freed us from the bonds of slavery. As our community grows, remember that our strength lies in commitment to tradition and to each other."

The elder turned to Mother Boann, and she stepped to the front of the podium. "Thank you, Valendrian. Now, let us begin."

At her left, Tathas tensed subtly, but the shift was enough for Isefel to notice. She glanced at her cousin and followed her gaze out just beyond the crowd… where Vaughan, his lackeys, and a dozen city guards were approaching.

Isefel gripped Tathas's arm and whispered gravely in her ear. "There's a Grey Warden here. Duncan. Friend of the elder. He took the road to the market district, with a red-headed dwarf woman."

Tathas's eyes flickered to the guards, running the odds in her head. Mother Boann continued to speak. "In the name of the Maker, who brought us this world, and in whose name we say the Chant of Light…"

Vaughan knocked Taeodore over as he approached the steps. Isefel felt Tathas slip from her grip, and the younger elf crept off the stage and into the winding alleyways behind the platform. Thank the Maker she'd actually listened to her.

Mother Boann stopped mid-speech at the disturbance behind her and turned. "Mi'lord? This is… and unexpected surprise."

"Sorry to interrupt, Mother, but I'm having a party and we're dreadfully short of female guests." Vaughan walked onto the podium with the authority of a man who owned it—which, Isefel supposed, he technically did. He was either unaware of the hateful eyes staring at him from all sides, or thought himself above them. Which again, he probably did.

Vaughan paced the platform, looming overlong behind Valora. Mother Boann crossed her arms indignantly. "Mi'lord, this is a wedding!"

"Hah!" Vaughan paced forward, knocking roughly into Valora so she stumbled into Soris. "If you want to dress up your pets and have tea parties, that's your business. But don't pretend that this is a proper wedding." Mother Boann stepped back. Isefel knew right then that they would have no help from her.

She glanced towards the back alley where Tathas had run. She would find Duncan. Tathas would be back soon, and Duncan could get them to leave peacefully. These humans wouldn't listen to elves, and if this day was going to end without bloodshed on one side or the other, they needed Duncan here.

She needed to find some way to stall them.

"Now, we're here for a good time, aren't we boys?" Vaughan nodded to his guards, and they began to encircle the elves gathered on the platform.

One of Vaughan's noble lackeys giggled gleefully from where he stood behind Eirania and Nola, grabbing each of the woman by their hair. "Just a good time with the ladies, that's all."

There was no way out of this, now. The armored guards had the platform surrounded. The only chance they had was for the elves on the ground to work together to fight off the guards, and that wasn't going to happen. Most were already fleeing back into their homes, afraid their daughters or wives would be taken by the bastard that ruled over them.

Vaughan stood in the center of the platform, turning slowly in the spot to survey each of them. "Let's see, let's take those two, the one in the tight dress… where's that little dark one at?"

"Don't think she's about, Lord Vaughan," his lackey said from where he was holding Nola and Eirania. Isefel's blood boiled. She said a silent prayer of thanks that Tathas had listened to her and left as soon as they realized what was happening.

"Tsk. Shame. Then… where's the bitch that bottled me?"

Shianni. She wasn't on the platform. Maybe she got away, too.

That hope died when the second lackey dragged her around the corner and up the platform steps. Shianni, to her credit, was putting up a struggle. "Right here, Lord Vaughan! Knife-eared wench tried to slip away. And look out, she bites."

"Let me go, you stuffed-shirt son of a—" Shianni's rant was cut off by the lordling hitting her in her in her gut, causing the woman to retch.

"Ooh, I'll enjoy taming her." Not if Isefel could help it. "And see the pretty bride…" She was already moving before her mind really caught up with what her body was doing. But Nelaros—brave, silly Nelaros—stopped her by standing protectively in front of her.

"Don't worry, I won't let them take you!"

"I won't let them take Shianni." Her voice was steel. She'd tried to be diplomatic before. Vaughan had his chance to walk away. At this point, he'd made his grave.

"Ah, yes. Such a well-formed little thing." Vaughan turned to her. He was only a few inches taller than her, but still he loomed.

"You villains!" Nelaros stepped bodily in front of her. Vaughan sneered, shoving the elven man aside.

"That's quite enough. I'm sure we'll all want to avoid further, um… unpleasantness."

"You touch a single hair on our heads, and I'll make sure yours falls to the ground." One last chance, Vaughan. Walk away. This is the final warning.

"Hah! This one has spirit. Oh, we are going to have some fun."

Isefel moved, striking at the human's jugular. Vaughan made a choking noise and stumbled backwards. She reached for the knife in her boot, but metal-clad hands grabbed her from behind, restricting her. The next thing she saw was a spiked gauntlet coming at her face. Then pain. Then nothing.

—

Even as she and Duncan left the alienage behind them, Liri couldn't help but be struck at how familiar it all felt. A walled-off slum that smelled like piss and was filled with people down on their luck… if you shrunk the residents by about a foot and a half and handed out brands, it'd look just like home.

Who knew humans had their own version of Dust Town?

Though… she couldn't remember anyone ever hosting a wedding in Dust Town. Or any kind of celebration, for that matter. No one trusted their neighbors enough for that sort of thing. Hell, most people would probably shank their neighbors first chance they got if it meant they could get a hold of a few extra coppers.

Maybe her people could learn a little something about community from those elves. Even if they didn't have much, they at least seemed happier than your average duster.

Duncan seemed disappointed with how their visit had gone, but not yet ready to give up. Liri couldn't say she was convinced. Sure, the girl's mom might have been kickass, but there was no guarantee Isefel was, even if she seemed to be the only one in the crowd with any guts. Though that was hardly saying much—most elves weren't known for their spine. At least, none of the ones she'd ever met.

Duncan probably had some way of finding out though. If she'd been listening to his previous conversations right, all the recruitments she'd witnessed so far had been something of extreme cases. With someplace less volatile like this, he probably did some kind of test to see how capable potential recruits were.

Liri kept close to him as he lead through the crowds. With all the tall humans in the way, she couldn't really see where they were headed. She didn't know if she'd ever be used to being surrounded by so many humans and elves. She felt extremely small and out of place.

Duncan brought them through the crowds to a small, out of the way little corner. He shifted aside a few crates to reveal a small door with a rather impressive set of locks. "Wait here for a moment," he said as he undid them, slipping inside.

Guess this is where the Wardens kept whatever it was that Duncan needed to get. She couldn't say she was a fan of all the secrecy around what exactly they had signed up for… but she knew first hand that beggars couldn't be choosers.

What did worry her was Edmund. He was fidgety and anxious, the same way he had been right before Highever's attack. Liri couldn't shake the feeling that he'd insisted on someone accompanying Duncan for a reason. She just couldn't imagine what that reason was.

Her first thought was that Howe had somehow learned of their survival and sent men after them or something, but so far they were clear of any tails or signs of danger. If Howe had people in the city looking for them, she felt like she'd have noticed by now.

Maybe the mage was just taking precautions, like he'd claimed. But somehow that didn't sit well with her, either.

Liri was shocked out of her thoughts when an elven girl dropped off of the roof of the building behind her, rolling briefly before springing to her feet. Liri's hands flew to her weapons, immediately on alert.

The elf was young, probably not more than a teenager, wearing a green dress that matched the ones she's seen on the bridesmaids preparing for the wedding in the alienage.

"Are you with Duncan?"

Her brows must have climbed straight into her hairline. She nodded, watching the girl as intently as the elf was observing her.

The girl cast an eye over her, lingering on her exposed weapons. "Where is he?"

Liri frowned. Going with the assumption that she wouldn't be understood, she just pointed over her shoulder at the door where Duncan had gone.

As if on que, Duncan emerged, barely even acknowledging them before he turned back and re-fastened the locks. "Can we help you, young lady?" he asked, turning back after a moment.

"I hope so. Come on, follow me." The words were barely out of her mouth before she took off back down the alley.

Liri exchanged a bewildered look with Duncan.

"Wait!" Duncan called as he began to pursue. "Who are you? What's going on?"

"The local lord decided to stop in on the wedding. Isefel is worried."

The girl didn't identify herself. But she obviously knew Isefel, who trusted her enough to send her after them.

She knew everything was going too smoothly. This day just got a lot more interesting.


	12. A Wedding Broken (Part 3)

"Sod. It looks like we lost them," Aothor scowled. Cousland helped the dwarf climb down from the barrel he'd stood on to survey the market. "It'll be like searching for a marble in a mineshaft, trying to find them around here. Take quick stock—what exactly are we missing?"

"All our money is gone. With what we had leftover from Crestwood and what little we had between us otherwise, I'd say it totals out to about four sovereigns worth. Our medical supplies is gone as well," Cousland said, running through the list in his mind.

"They've also got my notebook, plus my ink and quills," Edmund said, a distinct note of panic in his voice. "They also… they got the grenades I'd been holding onto."

"You have grenades?" Cousland asked, unable to help himself.

"I _had_ grenades," the mage corrected, "I helped Liri make them back in Orzammar. We used up most of them in the Deep Roads. Liri has most of the ones that are left over, I was only carrying two or three."

Aothor made a thoughtful sort of sound. Apparently, the lady dwarf's bomb-making abilities weren't just news to him. "Well, now those kids have them. What type of grenades were they? I'm far from an expert, but I know that some compounds are prone to combusting if they're agitated, and the kids didn't seem like the type to handle our stuff delicately."

"Oh God, I hope these don't do that," Edmund said, pale at the thought. "They're pitch grenades. Highly flammable pitch grenades. I'm not too sure beyond anything else, they're really Liri's brain child."

Aothor shrugged. "As long as the kids lives aren't in danger because of them, I suppose it doesn't matter too much. What is important is that we literally cannot afford to let the thieves get away. We'll have to keep looking. If we split up, we can cover more ground."

Cousland looked at the hound standing patiently at his side, and idea bubbling in his brain. Lady quirked her head, sensitive to their distress and keen on helping. "I don't think we need to. They've still got our stuff. Our stuff still smells like us. If we have something with a strong enough scent, Lady should be able to track them down as long as they haven't gone too far."

"You think she can find them through all this? Denerim certainly is… fragrant," said Edmund, wrinkling his nose.

"Of course she can. She's a Mabari," he said. The mage just stared at him blankly, and the dwarf didn't seem to be following his thought process either. Clearly that wasn't enough for him to piece together. "We use kaddis so our hounds can track us through the chaos of combat. Mabari have to have excellent noses, or they'd mistake allies for the enemy."

"Oh, kaddis, right! Gotta be honest, I totally forgot about that," Edmund said, the look of revelation quickly being consumed by one of concern. "Yikes. Wonder what else I've been forgetting…"

"If you think it'll work, then go for it. We honestly have nothing to lose at this point," said Aothor, rummaging through his pockets. "Here's the cloth I use to clean my equipment. Think that'll work?"

"Perfect, actually," Cousland said, taking the cloth and presenting it to Lady, who sniffed at it with great interest. "We need to find the kids who took our stuff. Think you're up to it girl?"

Lady barked in affirmation, turning her attention to the market and slowly weaving through the crowd, sniffing at the air and at the ground interchangeably.

Slowly she picked up speed as the scent became stronger, and she lead them away from the market space and into the maze of alleys that existed behind the shops.

She slowed suddenly, though not because she'd lost the trail. She stalked forwards with purpose, a quiet growl building in her throat. They were close.

They rounded a corner to find about a half dozen kids huddled together, going over a small collection of loot. They were a mix of humans and elves, and the oldest among them couldn't have been more than thirteen.

The one who seemed to be leading them, a blonde elven girl, snapped her head in their direction before they could even get close. "Don't let 'em catch ya!" she cried out, cackling madly as one of her friends grabbed hold of a stack of crates and tipped them over, blocking the narrow pathway.

The kids took off, gaining a bit of a lead on them as they stumbled their way through the crates. Lady was the first one through, breaking into a run and quickly gaining on the kids.

One of the human kids grabbed hold of a tall metal gate, dragging it across the alley and slamming in the lock. Lady jumped up against the bars as she howled, shaking it with her weight. Cousland caught up to her and reached through the bars for the mechanism, but whatever that kid did jammed it tight.

Cousland looked to Edmund. "Do something!"

"I don't want to hurt them!" Edmund said, focused on the kids.

"Well we have to do something, they're getting away!"

"Fine. Start climbing the gate." He said, holding his staff forwards, eyes still trained on the kids as he began to build up energy.

Peter booster Aothor up so he could pull himself over before beginning to manage on his own.

By the time they were both over the fence, the force launched forwards from the mage, wrapping around the blonde elf in a warp of light. Concern for the child build in him briefly, afraid of what the spell had done to her. The child cried out, though more from fear than pain—it seemed that Edmund's spell immobilized her.

"Shite, they got Sera!"

"Drop the stuff, this garbage aren't worth no demons!" The other children looked upon them with terror, dropping their few belongings on the cobblestone streets before fleeing in every which direction, abandoning their friend caught by Edmund's spell.

Aothor picked up their money from the ground, counting to make sure they had everything. Edmund made his own way over the fence, stopped only long enough to pick up a small leather journal and the grenades before turning to the child still trapped by his magic.

Something changed in Edmund's expression as he looked at the kid—subtle but eerie. "Look… Sera, right? It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm a Friend." It was like watching someone switch out a mask, and suddenly he was looking at a completely different person.

"You're a demon, and demons is made of lies! Demons isn't Friends!" She cried, struggling against the magic encasing her.

Edmund held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm going to drop the spell now, alright? It's not going to hurt you. Please don't run. I just want to talk." Cousland watched as the mage took a slow breath, held it in briefly with his eyes closed, and then breathed out again. By the time he'd fully exhaled, the light around the elf had gently faded and she was able to move. "I'm here for Friends. And they're also Friends," he said, gesturing over to where Cousland and Aothor stood.

Coulsand frowned. He'd known it right from the start; the mage was completely crazy. "What're you—?" He was cut off sharply by Aothor's boot on his foot, and he bit down on his tongue to keep from crying out.

He glared down at the dwarf, but his gaze was focused on Edmund. Clearly Aothor had picked up on something Cousland missed in his confusion.

The girl looked over at them, deeply unconvinced. "Friends don't send dogs after kids, neither."

"We didn't have any way of finding you otherwise. You kids are damn clever, and fast to boot. Besides, Lady's friendly. She was just eager to meet you. Isn't that right?" he said, meeting Cousland's gaze with a look that expected affirmation.

He suppressed an eye roll. They had their stuff back, so why were they even bothering? If what Edmund was saying earlier was right, they didn't have time to waste with this kid. They needed to get to the estate. But what the hell. "Yeah, Lady's a big sweetheart." Lady boofed happily at his side, tail wagging.

"Listen Sera. There's a nob who's punching down, and Friends say you're the best one to help us put him straight."

"Friends said that?"

"Cross my heart, hope to die. He's in the Arl of Denerim's estate. Can you get us in there?"

"Hold on Edmund, we—" Aothor began to protest, but now it was Cousland's turn to cut him off. He elbowed the dwarf in the gut—or what would have been his gut, if he was a normal sized person. As it was, he ended up smacking Aothor in the nose.

Sera cast a considering eye over them. "Hm… I dunno…"

"If you can get us in there quickly and unnoticed by the guards, I'll throw in an extra reward." Edmund held up one of the pitch grenades, teasing it just beyond the kid's reach. Her pale eyes filled with what was certainly an unhealthy amount of greed and mischief at the sight of it.

"Fine. And no more magic or any of that demon shite, got it?"

"Fine. I promise." Edmund nodded, stowing the grenade back in his pack.

Sera began to lead them through the alleyways, glancing over her shoulder cautiously every once in a while.

"Okay, what in the Maker's name was that all about?" Cousland asked, keeping his tone low to keep the conversation private from their questionable young guide.

"She's a local, she can take us to Vaughan," said Edmund.

"We don't need her," Cousland said, shaking his head. "I already know how to get to the Arl of Denerim's estate."

"Ah, but you know how to get there by the main roads and in through the front gate. Sera knows the shortcuts through the city, and I'm willing to bet she knows how to get us in unseen. We'll save time this way and face less resistance."

Cousland frowned, unconvinced. "How can you be sure this random kid can even help us?"

"You ever hear about the Friends of Red Jenny?"

Cousland blinked at the mage, unable to tell if this was for real or if he was pulling his leg.

"Well, I haven't." Aothor said, looking generally irritated. "Don't keep us in suspense."

"They're supposed to be an urban legend," Cousland said. "Some kind of group of troublemakers that mobilizes against the nobility. Occasionally things will go sideways or something odd will happen, and you'll hear people whispering about the Jennies. Never been any kind of substantive proof for the organization's existence, though."

"Well, truth be told, calling them an organization might be going a bit far. It's more like a chain of individual people working together to take out grudges against the wealthy and nobles who've done them wrong. Sometimes it's a petty prank, sometimes it's murder."

Aothor frowned, stroking his beard. "So, they're like… a surface version of the carta?"

Edmund shrugged. "Eh, I wouldn't say that. They're not nearly as malicious or organized, and certainly far more random. It's just normal folks punishing the privileged for their excessive hubris," he said, casting his gaze over at Cousland. "If your family was as well-liked by the people as it seems they were, the Jennies probably never had any real reasons to go after you—at least not for anything more serious than a prank. But there are plenty of targets for that and more in Denerim."

"Like Vaughan."

"Like Vaughan," He said, nodding along and turning his attention next to Aothor. "So, have you changed you mind? About helping, I mean."

Aothor sighed. "It's not like I want to leave them to their fate. But there are reasons why we're not supposed to get involved. I'm sure if Duncan was here, he'd be telling us the same."

"And yet, here you are," Cousland said, unable to keep the accusation out of his voice.

"Here I am, indeed. I don't think I can stop the two of you from doing this, so the only logical course of action is to help and make sure we don't get caught. No matter what, this can't come back on the Wardens." Aothor was quiet for a moment, watching Sera as she continued to lead them through the ever-winding alleyways. "Edmund, I've a question."

"Go ahead."

"Previous to joining the Wardens, I was under the impression you lived in the Circle all your life. Am I correct in this, or were you a resident of Denerim for some time?" Aothor asked, shifting his gaze from the elf to the mage. Cousland did similarly, feeling that the dwarf was coming upon a question he himself was wondering.

"Ah, no? I mean I was born in the Free Marches. But otherwise you're right about the Circle."

"Then how did you know about the Jennies?"

Though they kept moving, something about Edmund seemed to still. "It might surprise you, but we do an awful lot of reading in the Circle. The Jennies date back like, a hundred years or so, though they're probably older than that to be honest. Back then they got some attention for some pretty big assassinations. It's simple history."

Cousland bristled uneasily. "But that doesn't explain how you knew our little friend were was associated with the Jennies." First Highever, then the thing about Vaughan, and now this. He'd known, he'd known from the moment he'd seen him, that something was unusual about this mage.

Edmund stared dead ahead. "It was a gamble."

"Bullshit." Cousland grabbed Edmund's shoulder to stop him, but with an honestly surprising amount of strength he pulled away, continuing forward. "I want to help with this rescue thing—I think it's the right thing to do. But first you have to tell us what's really up. You owe us answers, Amell, actual answers."

"Actually, I don't think I owe you anything at all." His words were quiet, gentle even, but they were coated in a layer of ice. "I already told you I'll explain things later. Besides, we've got bigger fish to fry at the moment."

"Are you done gabbin'? We're here."

Cousland snapped himself back to focusing on his surroundings at Sera's words, realizing she'd lead them to a lower section of the city near the water to a small sewer exit gate. As his mind caught up with his surroundings, so did his nose, and he couldn't help but gag.

"You're not serious," Aothor, eyes flickering from the elf to the grate.

"Hey, if you don't wanna get in…"

"No! No, we do." Edmund rushed. "It's fine. But, ah, we're a little bigger than you are, kid. I don't think we can fit through the bars."

Sera rolled her eyes. "Not like you'll need to." She stepped into the outflow of the grate, the questionable liquid rising to about her knee level. She must have worked a lock on the grate, because a moment later it swung open. "Sometimes the drains get backed up, so the city pays some desperate folks a handful of coppers to go back and clear things out."

"So we can get to the Arl's estate through here?" Aothor asked, moving closer and looking down the dark passage with barely restrained distaste.

"Yeah. It'll be the fourth exit on your left. Or maybe the fifth. Honestly, don't really remember. But it'll get you close."

Cousland glanced up the slope. It seemed like this sewer grate lead out of the nobles district. It could, theoretically, lead to the Arl of Denerim's estate. He looked back down at the kid who held the gate open for them, a sinking feeling in his gut. They were trusting this random kid. This random kid, who not even twenty minutes ago had helped her friends rob them all blind.

He definitely didn't like this.

Edmund entered the sewer without a second of hesitation, conjuring a small light on the tip of his staff. Aothor followed only a moment later, increasingly regretful with every step. Cousland lingered, unable to shake the ominous grip on his intuition.

"Lady," he said, turning to his dog. "Wait out here for us by the exit." He pointed to the spot he wanted her to wait. She looked at him balefully, clearly unhappy at not being allowed to come along. Lady huffed unhappily but obeyed.

"Not bringin' the mutt?" Sera mused.

"She's not terribly good for the sneaky stuff, and I'm not particularly fond of the idea of bathing literal shit off of her." And he wanted to have someone for them on the outside, just in case. So far the kid had been helpful, but still…

Sera shrugged. "Suit yerself. Ah, I'll take what I'm owed, now." She held out her hand expectantly.

"Oh, right." Edmund fumbled with his bags briefly, making his way back to the mouth of the tunnel where Sera waited. He produced one of the grenades, passing it to her carefully. "It's a unique formula, so use it wisely, yeah?"

"Whatever." She grabbed the grenade from his hands, stashing it away. "Well, go one. Don't you got stuff to do?"

"Thanks for your help, Sera. We've saved a lot of time, because of you," Edmund said, sloshing back into the tunnel.

Cousland wanted to be wrong. He honestly did. He wanted to believe that the little street kid had a heart of gold.

But no sooner were they ten paces into the tunnel that the screech of metal tore through the air and the grate behind them closed, lock slamming shut.

The three of them spun around at the sound to see Sera already racing away from the entrance.

"Sera!" Edmund called out, grasping at the iron bars, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Lockin away a magic-demon-shite who thinks he can trick me 'cause he knows something 'bout Friends!" She lingered just long enough to say the words before taking off like a shot, vanishing back into the maze of the city.

Cousland reached through the bars, trying to feel for the locking mechanism, but there wasn't anything he could do to open it. Lady growled and moved to begin pursuing Sera. "Lady, no! Stay."

"Well, this is a literal shit-show," Aothor laughed humorlessly. "Sod, she must have overhead us talking. I forgot how good elves hearing is."

"I thought I was doing something clever here. Guess that'll teach me that I can't control everything." Edmund let out a long sigh, resting his forehead against the bars. "You know, I really wish I could say I'm shocked… but this is honestly very on-brand for her."

Cousland resolved to ignore the mage, at least for now. "Lady, go find Duncan and Liri. Can you do that for me, girl?" Lady whined, head turning from their position behind the grate to the direction Sera had run. "If we're going to get out of here, we need Duncan and Liri. Go get them." Lady gave them another lingering look, but barked loudly and took off.

"Maybe… maybe we can still salvage this," Edmund said, running his hands through his hair as he thought. "This drainage has to come from somewhere, right? Maybe Sera was telling the truth about how to get to the estate."

Aothor turned back down the tunnel, Cousland and Edmund following after. They hadn't made it that much farther before they came across one of the internal exits Sera had mentioned before.

"Damn," Aothor said. "We could maybe fit through that if we got on our bellies and dragged ourselves, but at that point we'd be completely submerged."

"This is just one of the openings—the other one could be big enough. We have to check."

"I don't think so." Aothor shook his head. "Given the whole design of this system, and if my Stone Sense is giving me a good indication of what's around… then we're out of luck. Let's face it—we've been had."

Edmund held his face in his hands, slumping his shoulders in defeat. "Well… shit."

No kidding.

—

A mass of elves crowded at the base of the tree. Angry voices cried out in fear. When they entered, everyone stared with blatant fear and distrust at the dwarf and human walking behind her, but seemed to ease if only a bit when they saw Tathas leading them in. The elves cleared a path of their own volition to the center of the crowd, where Valendrian was trying to calm the people down.

Tathas cast a quick eye at the assembly—Isefel was nowhere to be found. Neither were any of the girls from the bridal party. Fury burned inside her.

She should have stayed. Isefel was trying to protect them with a peaceful solution, but with scum like Vaughan it was doomed to fail. Even if they couldn't have won, she and Isefel could have at least caused enough of a stir to allow Shianni and the others to get away.

_We should have fought._

But it was too late. They'd already been moved away, and girls who went to secondary locations often never made it back. Tathas made a quiet decision for herself, regardless of whatever anyone else wanted her to do. Even if she couldn't get her cousin and the others back, she could at least stick a blade in the man who took them.

"Please, all of you, listen. I know you are upset and with good reason… but there is nothing we can do right now."

"I am here, Valendrian. Tell me what happened." Dunan said, stopping at the old elf's side. Tathas didn't know what to make of the human. That he'd come here at all spoke better of him than most, at least. His dwarven companion was quiet, but there was a dangerous manner in which she carried herself. Whoever these two were, they were no ordinary folks.

"Duncan. Oh, thank the Maker you've returned. The worst has transpired. The arl's son interrupted the ceremony—apparently there'd been an altercation with him earlier in the day. He… took the brides and the bridesmaids back to his castle for Maker knows what. There's not much to be done, I'm afraid."

"He's right," a woman from the crowed piped up. Elva, the local bitter old woman who seemed to delight in making her own problems an issue for other people. "Running after them will only make matters worse."

"So we do nothing?! They took my sister!" another man cried out.

Tathas glared at Elva. "No one's asking your opinion, Elva. If you don't want to get involved, then just go home. Otherwise you're in the way."

Eyes turned to her, many people only just now realizing she was standing there, so focused they were on Duncan and the dwarf.

Uncle Cyrion grabbed hold of her, pulling her into an embrace. Tathas couldn't help but stiffen at the touch but forced herself to relax. His heart rate was rapid. This was more to comfort him than it was for her. "I'm so relieved. No one knew where you went, we assumed Vaughan took you too."

"I'm fine. Isefel sent me to get help. We won't take this without a fight." Tathas said, gently pulling away from her uncle's arms. His eyes only barely held back tears. Isefel was the most important thing in the world to Uncle Cyrion, his joy and his reason for living. Without her, she didn't know what would become of him.

"That's right!" said Nelaros, with much more spine than Tathas would have guess of him. "We should go after them."

Valendrian sighed, shaking his head. "Normally I would counsel patience. Unfortunately, stories of the arl's son and his appetites are… most disturbing. Vaughan has never been so bold before, but with his father away, who knows what he thinks he can get away with?"

"We need to do something. Now," Tathas said, motioning for Nelaros and Soris to stand with her. She had no problem going in alone, but she wouldn't refuse back-up.

"But what can we do?" an elf from the crowd despaired, "We're talking about the arl's _palace_. Even with the arl and his knights gone, it'll be heavily guarded."

An elven man stepped forward from the crowd. "Elder, if I may offer a suggestion?" Valendrian motioned for the man to continue. "I work inside the palace. I could sneak a small company in through the servant's entrance. Nobody will notice an extra pair of elves looking around."

"We could be in and out before anyone knows the difference." Nelaros said.

Soris nodded. "I'm with you—but if we run into trouble, we may not be able to talk our way out of it."

And truly, Tathas wouldn't want to. It was high time those humans paid for what they'd done.

_We will make them pay._

"For that, you will need weapons." Duncan said, reinserting himself into the conversation. He took the sword from his belt, no small number of onlookers flinching as he drew the steel, and offered it hilt-first to Soris. "Allow me to offer you my own longsword and crossbow. A man should be able to defend his loved ones properly."

Nelaros took the crossbow. Soris shifted slightly in place before stepping aside and allowing Tathas to move forwards and take the blade. In all her life, she honestly never expected to be openly armed by a human. But a blade was a blade.

Duncan looked down at her, brows raised. "I do not believe I caught your name earlier, my lady."

Tathas bristled at the formality, turning the weapon over in her hand to check it's balance. Surely, he was mocking her. She drew herself up to her full height - all five feet of it - as she spoke. "Tathas Surana."

Recognition flashed in his eyes, but the human kept whatever thoughts he had to himself. He allowed her to take the sword, and no one else protested. Duncan offered Soris his short sword instead, leaving the human armed only with a small dagger.

"Then your path is set," said Valendrian, "I pray the Maker looks on it with favor."

"Are you prepared for what you're about to do?" Duncan asked. Though the question was posed to the three of them, Tathas couldn't help but feel it was targeted at her.

She rolled her shoulders, agitated. "I'm angry and feeling just a bit murderous—how's that?"

"You must tame your rage. An enraged fighter makes mistakes, perhaps fatal ones. Clarity of thought is the path to victory," he said. Tathas rolled her eyes—for a human, he sounded an awful lot like the elder.

"Don't presume to tell me what to do with my rage, unless you want to become its target." She turned away from the human and his stale wisdom. Anger didn't make her sloppy—it helped her survive.

"Tathas… are you certain? The chance of success is so small," said Uncle Cyrion. Their plan of action seemed to give him some hope, at least.

She jutted her chin, fire in her eyes. "A small chance is still a chance."

Uncle Cyrion laughed, shaking his head. "Alright. Be safe, brave girl."

—

Liri watched the elven girl as she spoke with the alienage elder. For a kid who didn't look any older than fifteen, she was the only person she'd ever met who had the balls to threaten Duncan. For his part, he seemed unruffled, and continued to survey the assembled elves with an odd mixture of concern and disconnection.

"_We should help them. We have a better chance of saving them if we go ourselves." _Liri said, eyeing the three volunteers. They might be able to make it in, but she would be lying if she said she didn't have serious doubts about how they'd do in a fight.

"I fear that we cannot," He said, speaking only to her. The elves looked at her a bit oddly, clearly not understanding her way of speaking, but Liri only gaped at Duncan.

"_What, so we do nothing? Give them some swords and a pat on the back for luck, then sit here and twiddle our thumbs?"_ She'd thought better of Duncan than that. But maybe she'd been wrong.

Duncan sighed, rubbing his brow tiredly. "Trust me when I say our involvement would cause them more problems than it would solve."

"_Like sodding hell it would."_

"While Arl Urien may be a decent man, he is no friend of the Grey Wardens. He was among those most vocally opposed to our presence here in Ferelden."

"_So what? From everything they've said, it sounds like we'd be doing this guy a favor by getting rid of his kid," _she said._ "We dispose of an inconvenient brat, save those girls from rape and death… sounds like a win all around."_

Duncan looked at the elves again, something like pain crossing his expression before he hid away behind a mask of neutrality. The servant approached the three brave volunteers and they were off. Duncan only watched them go, holding a hand out to stop her when she stepped forwards to catch up to them.

"You're all insane! The guards will burn our homes down around us!"

"Enough, Elva. You've had your say. They shall try, for their own honor and for the honor of the women. We must trust in the Maker." Valendrian was firm, leaving room for no one else to argue.

Liri scowled up at the elder before turning her gaze to Duncan. The Stone, the Ancestors, the Maker… if they didn't care about the people like those girls, then what good were they? Liri couldn't see the point.

"If we act against Vaughan, Arl Urien will have the excuse he longs for to renew our banishment from Ferelden," Duncan said quietly.

Liri shook her head, unable to believe what she was hearing_. "We shouldn't let shit rules get in the way of helping these people." _

"Were the circumstances different, I would be willing to take the risk of involvement. But a Blight has hit Ferelden. If we are cast out of the nation now, it will mean that countless more innocents than just these few will suffer unimaginable fates."

"_If you can't help them because you're a Warden, then at least let me go."_

"No. While you are not a full member of the Order yet, even Recruits are still bound by our rules and our code. We can't go into the Arl's palace."

As the rescue team approached the gates, the elder turned to them. "What do you make of their odds, Duncan?" Valendrian asked.

"Hard to say. They will be terribly outnumbered, and Vaughan himself is a skilled combatant." Duncan admitted with a slow breath. Liri bristled. All the more reason that they should help, hang the politics.

At their side, Cyrion chuckled. "Tathas is a fighter through and through, and she won't let those boys get hurt. But I don't know if it will matter. If you'll remember, Isefel is in that castle."

"Oh?" Duncan asked, waiting for him to continue.

"Let's just say I wouldn't be at all surprised to find they break in for a rescue, only to find out Isefel has beaten them to it and lead an escape."

Duncan smiled then, but whatever relief he was feeling wasn't shared by Liri. "You have faith in your girls. Perhaps I can manage to, as well."

Liri turned back to Duncan once the rescue team was no longer in sight. He wanted to help them—she could tell that he did. But he was letting him get bogged down by the stupid nobles and their politics, and was refusing to let her help for the same reason.

Sod it all. There had to be something she could do.

"_Fine. I'll go meet up with the guys at the inn—they're probably done with shopping by now."_

Duncan nodded. "Very well. I will wait here a short while for their return, successful or not. Ensure that the others will be ready to depart."

Liri turned back towards the gate to the market, turning her thoughts over inside her head. Edmund's anxiousness earlier, and his insistence the someone go with Duncan… she couldn't shake the feeling that it was connected to all this. It could totally just be coincidence. It was fitting with the kind of luck they seemed to have. But still…

Ultimately it didn't matter. Whether anyone knew about it ahead of time or it was dumb chance was completely irrelevant, in her opinion. She was here now. And she couldn't let herself walk away.

Leske always did say that she never knew when to let it go.

As soon as she was no longer within eyeshot of Duncan, she cut sideways into an alleyway. Though Denerim was on the surface, when you got right down to it a city was a city. She might not know all it's nooks and crannies, but if her upbringing in Dust Town had granted her anything, it was a gift for navigating corners and alleys.

Dust Town had also taught her how to go behind a boss's back and get away with it. Even if she did get in trouble with Duncan for it, she wasn't nearly as scared of him as she was of Beraht. The worst he could do would be to kick her out of the Grey Wardens. While it would be a major bummer, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

Besides, if she could do anything to help those girls, it would be worth it.

She followed the alleyways until she found the bridge crossing the river to the nicer part of the city. Unless the elves took a different path, she should be able to find them if she kept along this road.

The district was obviously nicer than the other parts of the city and better cared for—the fact that the streets didn't smell like piss was an easy indicator. Walled off estates of varying sizes lined the streets along with plenty of upper-class townhouses. It didn't hold a candle to the grandeur of the Diamond Quarter, but it carried the same atmosphere of wealth.

Guess rich people would be rich people, no matter the race.

The streets were also far less crowded than the rest of the city had been, which meant Liri stuck out like a small but very sore thumb. If it wasn't already obvious that she didn't belong there, the looks she caught from passersby were enough to make that clear, ranging from curious to openly disdainful.

She was definitely in the right area, or at least getting close to it. She couldn't see Tathas or the other elves of the rescue party anywhere—they must have taken a different set of alleyways to the estate. They were locals who actually knew where they were going, whereas she was just going off of vaguely informed guesswork.

Since she couldn't find the elves, Liri's main problem now was she didn't know which of these fancy estates was the one she was looking for. They didn't exactly have signs on the door saying who owned the different places, and it was unlikely she'd be able to get directions from any of the humans around here.

Cousland might know, if she took the time to backtrack to the market and find him and the other guys. But every second counted now, and she couldn't waste any time getting the others.

Liri was nearly ready to start breaking into random estates until she found the right one when a snow-white mabari came bounding up the bridge behind her. Liri backed up a step as Lady ran up to her. She didn't think she'd ever quite be used to a dog that was taller than she was.

Lady stopped just inches from her face and barked loudly before she began to circle around her, whining. Liri glanced around—the guys weren't with the dog, and most concerning of all was Cousland's absence. The lordling and his dog had barely been more than ten feet from each other since Highever, which could mean he was somewhere nearby.

"_Where are the others?" _she asked.

Lady didn't react at all to the question, because she was a dog only trained to respond to actual speech, she reminded herself—why did the communication problem have to apply to animals, too?

Lady stopped circling, turning back to face the bridge and whining loudly. It wasn't hard to puzzle out that the mabari wanted Liri to follow her.

This could be good. If Lady could bring her to Cousland, she could try and get his help to find the estate, and maybe the other guys too. Liri followed the hound across the bridge and down the slope to a portion of the city nearer the water. The closer they got the less she breathed through her nose—the fragrance reminded her of home, and not in a good way.

What were the others doing down here?

She got her answer not but a few moments later when Lady lead her to a sewer grate—and in spite of the terrible circumstances and peril of the current situation, she burst out laughing.

From behind the bars, Aothor let out a long sigh. "Oh, we're never going to live this down, are we?"

"_Not in your lifetime, no," _Liri said, still chuckling. _"What in the sodding hell are you guys doing in there?"_

"We have Edmund to thank for this," Cousland said, jabbing his thumb towards the mage. "'You know what sounds like a great plan? Let's trust the sketchy street urchin who just robbed us to lead us through the city!' Because there's _no way_ that was doomed to end poorly."

"I thought it would be more efficient! How was I supposed to know she'd lock us in here?"

Cousland rolled his eyes. "It's a little thing called 'common sense.'"

Aothor sighed, leaning his head against the bars as he looked at Liri, largely ignoring the humans who continued bickering. "As you can see, we're a bit of a mess. The grate's locked, and we can't do anything about it from here. Mind giving us a hand?"

Liri was already wading through the questionable outflow to the locking mechanism. _"Duncan and I leave you three unattended for less than an hour, and you get trapped in the sewers."_

"We also got robbed—don't forget that part," Aothor said with dry humor.

"_And after I explicitly warned you, too."_ Liri took out her tools and began to work away at the lock. It took a moment of fiddling, but before long it clicked open. _"I need you guys to help me, and you can't tell Duncan, okay?" _She said after pulling the grate open for them.

Aothor gave her a long look. "You're talking about the elves."

Liri frowned at him, but nodded.

"I didn't want to say 'I told you so,' but… I literally told you so," Edmund said, stepping back up onto the bank and trying to whip the refuse off of himself to little effect. "Has Vaughan taken them to his palace already?"

So he'd known about this, too. Liri shrugged the thought away—that wasn't what was important right now. _"They were gone by the time Duncan and I got back to the alienage. One of the servants took a group of three elves to rescue them, but I don't want to leave things just up to them."_

"Okay, so that means—wait, three elves? Who?"

Liri blinked up at him, confused on what about that even mattered. _"The two grooms from the wedding and some kid. She seemed like she was leading them."_

"Hm… that's different… but I think that's better…? I don't know," Edmund said, looking off at nothing like he always did when he got lost in his own brain. It seemed to happen a lot.

"And you're also wanting to go behind Duncan's back about this?" Aothor asked, "Are you sure?"

"_Yes, I'm sure. Why, you have reservations?" _

"There are reasons why Grey Wardens can't bet involved in this type of situation," He said. Liri rolled her eyes—the ex-prince sounded just like Duncan. Leave it to him to get stuck on the rules. Aothor sighed before continuing. "I won't stop you guys if you're intent on doing this. Sod, I'll even help. But we have to be careful—we represent the Wardens now."

Well. That was more than she expected of him, at least. _"The rescue group has probably reached the palace by now, but if we hurry, I'm sure we could still help. Cousland, can you get us to the estate?"_

"I think so," Cousland said, looking up towards the nobles district, "But subtlety might not work so well anymore, seeing as we all smell like day-old chamber pot."

"Who knows, maybe that's for the best," Aothor said, rubbing his brow tiredly. "We can be a big, smelly distraction for the guards."

Liri looked at the ex-prince, eyes lighting up. _"You're a genius!"_

Aothor frowned, visibly confused. "I mean, I won't disagree with you, but… what makes you say that?" Liri stooped by the outflow, pulling glass flasks out of her bag and filling each with an amount of the sewage. His eyes widened, realization hitting him. "Stink bombs."

Liri pulled other ingredients from her bag—reactor agents to compress the fluid and gas, activators to generate enough force to cause dispersal on impact…

"Wait, that could be perfect," Edmund said, stooping by her side to help bottle the finished flasks. "We set them off, causing enough of a distraction to pull attention from the guards and take pressure off the elves fighting inside, maybe even flush some of them out of the building entirely."

"If we can throw them through a window or something, we can maybe duck away before anyone sees us. Thus, no connecting us to the assault on the palace. We stink-bomb some rapists and assholes to help clear the way for the elves, no evidence of Grey Warden involvement—it sounds like a win all around." Cousland said. "Alright. This could work."

Liri capped the last flask and turned to the guys, a wicked grin on her face. _"Let's do this."_

—

If the headache she'd had before the wedding was bad, the one she had now was agonizing.

"Maker keep us, Maker protect us, Maker keep us, Maker protect us—"

"Stop it! You're driving me insane." Shianni's voice called out. Isefel tried to open her eyes, only to cry out in pain and clutch her face with her hands.

"Oh, you've come to! Thank the maker." Slowly, very slowly, Isefel opened her right eye to see Shianni, Eirainia, and Valora sitting over her. Nola was some distance away, praying fervently under her breath. Shianni was holding on to Isefel with shaking arms. "We were so worried you weren't going to wake up."

"Are you all okay?" Isefel asked, still battling back the pain in her left eye.

"We're scared, but unharmed. For now. But your eye, the way the spikes on that gauntlet caught it…" Valora trailed off, unable to look at Isefel's face. "We cleaned it as best we could. We used the petals from your flower crown to help with some of the pain… but unless you get healing magic immediately, I don't think there will be any saving it."

"Why did you have to fight them?" Shianni chided.

"I couldn't do nothing." With a shaky breath, Isefel sat up and began ripping the hem of her dress. "Shianni, Valora, help me with this. How long was I out?"

"Just a little under half an hour, I think. He hit you really hard." Valora said as she and Shianni began taking the torn fabric and wrapping it around Isefel's head. "They locked us down here to wait until that bastard is 'ready for us.'" Valora shuddered at the thought.

"Then we kill the first human that opens that door." Her voice was steel.

Eirainia stammered. "We're five unarmed women! What makes you think that we can kill anyone?"

"Maker keep us, Maker protect us, Maker keep us, Maker protect us—"

"Great. Now this again." Shianni stood, helping Isefel to her feet. She let out a slow breath. The loss of vision in one eye combined with the pain left her dizzy.

Eirania stood, still staring at the nearest wall. "Look, we'll… do what they want, go home, and try to forget this ever happened."

Valora nodded her head. "Maybe she's right. It'll be worse if we resist."

"It will be worse if we don't!"

"Quiet, all of you!" Isefel turned to the door. "Someone's coming. If you see an opportunity, take it. We're getting out of here, I promise." Isefel grabbed the blade from her boot and pressed it into Shianni's hand. She could manage without it, but her cousin stood a better chance with something to defend herself with. "Stick 'em with the pointy end."

Shianni fumbled briefly, clumsily placing the knife in her own boot just as the door opened. Five guards entered, weapons drawn. "Hello, wenches. We're your escorts to Vaughan's little party."

"Stay away from us!" Nola rose and shrieked. Isefel reached out to pull Nola back, but she was too far away. By the time her hand landed on the woman, the guard had already run her through.

Isefel cradled Nola as she bled out, her white dress staining with red.

"You-you killed her!" Eirainia gasped, near faint.

"I suppose that's what happens when you try teaching whores some respect." The guard sneered at them. Isefel made a note - make sure that one dies slowly. She realized after a moment he was also the one that had struck her and damaged her left eye. Amendment—he died slowly, screaming. "Now, you grab the gentle flower cowering in the corner. Horace and I will take the homely bride and the drunk. You two, bind the last one. She's the scrapper."

The guards filed out, dragging her friends and family along with them. The two left backed her into a corner.

"Don't worry. We'll be perfect gentlemen."

Unlikely.

"You heard the captain. Be a good little wench, or you'll end up like your friend there."

The friend whose blood stained her dress. The friend who she'd held as she'd died.

"Try it. See what parts you loose first." Isefel shifted into a combat stance. There were two of them. They were both armed and armored.

The guards weren't intimidated. "Hah! Captain was right; she's a scrapper."

"Uuh… hello?"

Isefel never would have guessed that Soris's voice could be music to her ears, but right now it was.

The guards turned their backs to her. Mistake number one.

"Oh, look at this. A little elfling with a stolen sword." The guards approached him.

They thought he was the one they should be worried about. Mistake number two.

Soris bent and slid the blade along the ground so it landed perfectly at her feet. Isefel raised the blade.

"Oh, sod." Panic over took them as they realized what was about to happen.

That, at least, they got right.

Isefel slit the first guards throat before he'd even properly raised his weapon. The second swung at her head. Isefel barely managed to dodge the blade in time, on account that the man was standing to her left, where she could no longer see. But he'd overextended his reach with the swing, leaving himself open. He fell just as fast as his comrade.

Isefel took a second to re-adjust her balance. The room was spinning a little bit still.

"Maker, cousin. Are you going to be okay?"

"I'll adjust." Isefel turned the blade over in her hand. The short sword was of exceptionally fine make. "Where'd you get the weapon?"

"That Grey Warden, Duncan, gave Tathas and I his swords and Nelaros his crossbow, but that's all we have."

That Tathas was here didn't really surprise her, but she hadn't expected Nelaros. "Nelaros is here?"

"He and Tathas are guarding the end of the hall. He surprised me—he's a decent shot. And Tathas is… well, Tathas."

Isefel looked back down at the griffon emblem etched into the pommel of the short sword. "Why didn't Duncan come?" That was, after all, what she'd expected when she sent for him.

"He can't interfere, he said. Something about Grey Wardens being neutral."

"Lucky us, we have nothing to loose." Isefel tightened the make-shift bandage around her eye and collected a set of small throwing knives from one of the dead guards. She lifted the guards sword as well and passed it to her cousin. "Here, I think you'll need this. Remember how to use one?"

"Stick 'em with the pointy end?"

Isefel sighed. She'd taught Soris and Shianni basic defense, but neither of them had taken to it well. "Good enough, I suppose. Just stay behind me, step in if you see an easy opening."

"Right. Let's go, cousin."

The kitchen was mostly empty. Except for the corpse of human—probably the cook, lying in the middle of the floor.

"We encountered him when we snuck in. He made a comment about clipping ears… and, well, you know Tathas."

Isefel stepped over the corpse without a second look. The dining hall was again empty, save for three corpses strewn across the floor. "They haven't been dead long. Nelaros and Tathas should be just ahead."

They found the two elves almost immediately after. Nelaros was bleeding from his arm, but still loaded his crossbow and took aim. Tathas was facing off three guards with one sword, dancing and weaving to avoid their blows.

Isefel took a throwing knife in her hand and hurled it, missing the tallest guards head my mere inches. She frowned. This new lack of depth perception was going to be problematic.

Despite the miss it served to get the guards's attention, taking some pressure off Tathas and giving her the opening to disarm one of the guards and run him through. Isefel took another knife, aimed, and threw.

This time the blade found its mark and sank deep into the guard's throat. Nelaros's crossbow planted a bolt in the final guard's thigh, and Tathas landed a killing blow not seconds later.

The four elves stood still for a moment, breathing heavily. Soris fell in step behind her as she approached Nelaros. "You're hurt."

"So are you, it seems." Nelaros gave a lingering look to her blood-soaked bandage over her left eye.

"I'll be okay." Isefel said.

Tathas snickered into her palm, eyes bright despite the dire circumstances. "You could almost say you'll be… _all right."_

The three older elves groaned collectively. Soris ran a hand over his face. "Timing, cousin. We have got to work on your timing."

"You're so _in-sight-ful,_ Soris. I am ever your _pupil."_

"So help me, Tathas…" Isefel muttered, collecting the throwing knives from the dead guard.

"I can _see _your point.This isn't _eye-deal. _If we're caught, we could get thirty-nine _lashes. _We need to keep a _lid _on this situation." Tathas cackled manically, picking up a small round shield from a dead guard and testing its weight. Isefel frowned as she watched her—she never taught Tathas how to use a shield. So why was she choosing that?

Nelaros gave Isefel a very concerned look. "Is she… okay?"

Isefel sighed. "Been wondering that since the day we took her in."

"_Eye _can understand you couldn't take it if these jokes got any _cornea. _Hey Isefel, since you've got a messed up eye, and I've got screwed up ears, between the both of us we're one functioning elf! Watch out Soris, or you may end up loosing an arm or something, the way today's going."

Poor Soris paled at the thought. Isefel yanked on Tathas's braid as she passed her, leading the group down the hall. "I don't think docked ears actually affect your hearing, but you have listening problems regardless. Just shut up and cover my blind spot, would you? We're wasting time."

Ill-timed puns out of the way, they resumed their rescue and escape mission. They proceeded quietly but quickly. The more attention they drew from the inhabitants, the more guards they would have to face, and the longer it would be before they could reach Shianni and the others. Every second mattered.

The sound of crashing glass sounded from around the corner, and the four of them stilled. A strong odor began to drift their way, and Isefel could hear swears and outcries of disgust from the hall down the corner. She heard the all too familiar sound of armored footfalls, but the guards seemed to be moving away from them, or more accurately, away from the pungent stink.

Holding a hand over her face she lead the group around the corner. A window was broken and glass was scattered across the floor. Had someone thrown something in?

"Maker, smells like the sewers," Soris said, green in the face.

Despite the gags and coughs of her companions she lead them down the hall. She wasn't going to question it now, especially not when it was convenient. Though, she wasn't sure the smell would ever wash out of their clothes. Isefel simply focused on breathing as little as possible.

Occasionally they would hear the shattering of glass and outcries of disgust following after. For the most part, it seemed like the stink was driving the guards away from their location. But eventually they moved towards the inner part of the palace, where there were no convenient hallway windows for their apparently friendly stink-bombers to use.

The scent still drifted through the halls, but they found a small company of guards blocking their path.

Tathas covered her left, shield raised to catch incoming arrows. Nelaros even made himself useful, or was at least lucky enough to land occasional shots in the guards armor. Soris… just hung to the back. Which was probably for the best.

Isefel took a guardsman's head off. Tathas smacked another in the face with her shield and cut into his torso as he stumbled. Isefel frowned. "Where did you learn to use that?" She asked, eyeing the shield again. Isefel had only trained Tathas with knives, daggers, and other easily concealed weapons. But Tathas carried the shield and longsword with confidence.

Tathas just shrugged. "I have an acquaintance."

Isefel sighed. The defiant little elf wouldn't tell her anything more. Not now, anyways.

"And where'd you learn to use a crossbow? I didn't take you for a fighter." Isefel asked Nelaros as they continued down the hall.

"And I would ask where you learned to throw knives, or fight with a blade." Nelaros said, shaking his head. "I'm not really a fighter. I would occasionally attend the Teyrn of Highever and his sons on hunts. Help carry game, maintain weapons, tend to the mounts. One time the hunting party was attacked by bandits. After that, the Teyrn's sons taught the few elves in attendance to use a crossbow, in case we came across anything dangerous again. But why were you taught to fight?"

Dogs barked from one of the side rooms. Soris and Tathas nearly leapt out of their skins. Isefel gripped her blade so tight her knuckles went white.

"Your lord brought you hunting." Isefel said, pulling the door open and throwing a knife in the kennel masters eye before he'd even had a chance to register what was happen. The mabari charged, bloodthirsty. "Our lords hunted us. That's why I use a sword."

She stabbed the largest of the mabari as it lunged at her. Soris impaled the other—though it might be more accurate it impaled itself on his outstretched sword.

Three more dogs remained in their cages, rattling the bars and snarling. Isefel was about to turn and leave them, but Tathas approached a cage and stuck the dog through the bars. The hound howled, slumped, and bled out on the stone floor.

"What are you doing?! It's caged, it can't hurt us." Nelaros gasped, eyes wide and horrified. Tathas gave him a smile, but there was caged malice in her eyes. Wordlessly, she raised her dress to reveal the old scars from teeth on her leg. She turned to the last cage, putting down the last dog.

Those dogs had already tasted elf-blood. They were a danger.

"Come on. The others are waiting on us," Soris urged.

They found the guard captain in a small room leading to the arl's bedroom. He had his back to them, unaware of their approach. He was the one who killed Nola. "That's the bastard that took my eye," she whispered. Tathas nodded, hanging back a step and motioning for the men to hold.

Isefel aligned herself behind him, her steps silent. She boxed his ears, and he swore, stumbling to turn around and fumbling for his sword. With a smooth movement of her own she had him disarmed, and she kicked his legs out from under him.

The two other guards shouted in alarm and drew their weapons. For all the good it did them. Tathas hurled her shield like a discus, striking one guard square in the forehead and knocking him out cold. Casually, Isefel flicked a dagger into the second one's neck, never breaking eye contact with the captain on the floor.

"You'll hang for this, you filthy stinking knife-ear. And then they'll burn that pig-sty you come from," he spat. Isefel sank her sword into his stomach, twisting and pulling to spill his innards. He screamed, writhing on the floor. She stepped over him, leaving him to bleed out slowly. Nelaros looked like he might be sick. Maybe it was a bit much. But right now, she couldn't be bothered to care.

For Nola.

Isefel collected her knives. Tathas picked up the captain's heavier, sturdier shield. As they moved down the next hallway they could hear sounds of commotion and raised voices coming from what was likely the master bedroom.

"Damn bitch cut me!"

"Just kill her, she's not worth the effort. We've got plenty of other playthings waiting nice and peaceful."

"Stay away from me, you goddamn sons of whores—!"

Shianni. She was fighting back. Isefel ran for the door, throwing it open. All heads turned towards her at the sound, freezing abruptly in place.

Vaughan stood at the foot of the bed, hand clutched over a long scrape across his collarbone. His two lackeys had Shianni backed into a corner. Her hair was disheveled, clothing torn, and it seemed like she was bleeding from her calf, but she was on her feet with Isefel's dagger held out between her and the humans.

"My, my. What have we here?" Vaughan said, eyes narrowed.

Lackey Number One took a step towards them, cracking his knuckles. "Shit-stinking knife-ears who don't know their place, clearly. Don't worry; we'll make sort work of this lot."

"Quiet, you idiot! They're covered in enough blood to fill a tub. What do you think that means?"

"It means you're about to pay for what you've done," Isefel snarled.

"Alright, let's not be too hasty here." He approached, gesturing in what he probably thought was a placating motion. "Surely we can talk this over."

Isefel raised the blade so the tip was level with his eyes. "Take another step, human, and I guarantee it shall be your last. My friend is dead, this day is in tatters, all because of you and your kind. I have nothing to loose." Her grin was feral. "But you… you still possess both your eyes."

"Isefel…" Shianni's voice was weak, arms shaking. "Let's just get out of here. I want to go home!"

"Think for a minute! Kill me, and you ruin more lives than just your own. By dawn, the city will run red with elven blood."

"Please. As if it won't already, after today." Tathas muttered.

"You know how this ends. Or we could talk this through… now that you have my undivided attention."

Isefel readied a throwing knife in her offhand. "I think we're done."

"Bah, I always regret talking to knife-ears. Now I'll just gut your ignorant caresses, instead!"

Vaughan pulled his sword. Isefel met his blade with her own, parrying the blow to the side. Nelaros loosed a bolt from the crossbow, but he was less lucky this time and missed. At the edge of her vision she saw Lackey Number One raise his blade at Shianni.

Shianni.

And then Tathas was there, her body between the lord and their cousin, meeting the blow with her stolen shield.

One day, she was going to get a straight answer out of that kid on where she learned to do that.

Isefel parried another blow and cut Vaughan's arm with the knife in her hand, severing a tendon. Vaughan swore, the blade falling from his grasp. In the same motion, Isefel lodged the dagger into his groin, piercing his manhood.

He shrieked. The nobleman fell to his knees, hands grasped at his heavily bleeding groin. She swung the sword, striking out his eyes. The man made a strangled cry of pain as blood spurt from the empty sockets.

The next time her blade fell, it cut his head from his shoulders.

She turned to Lackey Number One, who was focused on Tathas, leaving his flank vulnerable. Nelaros shot again, landing a bolt in the man's knee. Isefel stabbed him in the back.

She rounded on Lackey Number Two. The man had only just managed to draw his blade, and he appeared to have wet himself.

"You filthy rabbits are going to regret this," his voice shook, but his eyes were filled with hatred.

"Perhaps. But you won't be here to know." Isefel charged the man, ducking under his blade and kicking his legs out from under him. She didn't even need to finish him off—his temple struck the corner of the table as he fell, killing him instantly.

"They… they're dead." Nelaros breathed a sigh of relief.

Soris glanced at the bodies, then nervously at Isefel. "Tell me we did the right thing, cousin."

"They didn't leave us with any options. What's important that Shianni and the others are safe now."

"We can check the back room for the others." Nelaros said, nodding to Soris.

The two elven men went to check the room. Shianni fell to her knees shaking from head to toe. Isefel set her weapons on the ground and crouched next to Shianni, pulling her into a hug.

"That was… too close. I was so scared—he had me on the bed, and I only barely got to the knife, and I… and I…" She let out a shaky breath, leaning her head into Isefel's shoulder.

Isefel wished she was a mage in the moment, if for no other reason than to re-animate Vaughan's corpse to kill him again. As it was, she helped Shianni stand.

"We're here now, and you're safe," Tathas said, taking hold of Shianni's hand. "On another note, we have got to teach you how to hold a dagger properly. Your form is terrible."

"Oh, shut it, you little menace," she said with a small laugh. The small trace of humor left her as she surveyed the carnage around them. "You killed them, didn't you? You killed them all?"

"Like dogs, Shianni. All of them." Isefel wished she had been faster. That they hadn't cut it so close. If they had been any slower at all… she didn't want to think about what would have happened to Shianni then.

The door to the back rooms opened again; Soris and Nelaros lead Valora and Eirania into the room. Isefel gave them a quick once-over to make sure they were okay.

"How are you?" Isefel asked.

"We're fine. Shianni got the worst of it. He said he was… saving us for later." Valora shuddered.

"Err…" Soris interjected, "We should go. Soon. As in, right now."

"Yes, I've had enough of this place." Isefel agreed. "Fair warning everyone—all the hallways smell like shit."

Valora stared at her visibly confused. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means exactly what she said," Nelaros sighed. "Someone on the outside was throwing stink bombs. Whether they were trying to help us, of just some kids playing a convenient prank, who can say? But it's pretty nasty."

"Where did you leave Nola?" Tathas asked. Isefel blinked. She hadn't told the others about Nola yet. But Tathas had already pieced it together for herself, apparently.

"In the storage room, by the kitchens."

"We're not leaving her here. We'll get her on our way back out. She deserves that much at least."

She deserved better.

—

Duncan watched as Cyrion paced back and forth before the alienage gate. Valendrian stood at Duncan's side, staring impassively at the ground.

Duncan caught Cyrion by his shoulder. "They may require medical attention when they return." When, not if. "Perhaps you could begin preparing?"

Cyrion seemed for a moment like he might argue, but his shoulders slumped and he sighed. "Yes. Of course, Duncan. Notify me the moment there's news." Cyrion turned, returning to his home.

"You came here to recruit." An accusation, not a question, to Duncan from the elder.

Duncan nodded. "I did indeed. I had thought to test Adaia's daughter. From what I have seen, she would make a fine Warden." Valendrian's face showed his blatant disapproval. "A Blight is coming, Valendrian. If it is not stopped, all of Ferelden will fall. We must all make sacrifices to see it ended. The threat demands I gather recruits, from wherever they may be found."

"I… understand."

The gate groaned as it began to rise. They had returned.

Isefel Tabris lead a group of six other elves into the Alienage. She was something to behold—her torn wedding dress now more red than white, with scraps of fabric wrapped around her head to cover a badly damaged eye. She carried a blade openly in one hand, and was using the other to help one of the other women walk with an injured leg.

Valendrain ran to meet them. "You have returned," he said, taking inspection of the group, "Has Shianni been hurt? Where is Tormey's daughter, Nola?"

The elves were silent and stepped aside. Tathas stood at the back of their company, carrying the still body of an elven woman. She carried forwards, face stone.

Valora began to weep. "Nola didn't make it. She resisted, and…"

"…they killed her." Shianni finished grimly.

"I see. Would the rest of you ladies please take Shianni home? She needs to get off that leg." The two women took over Isefel's position and helped Shianni walk as hey hurried towards the Tabris house.

"Go with them, Nelaros. Your shoulder's hurt, you need to get that looked at," Isefel instructed.

"You're one to talk," Nelaros said, pointing at her make-shift eyepatch. Isefel gave him a hard one-eyed look. He gulped, returning the crossbow and bolts to Duncan before hurrying after the women.

"Tathas…" Valendrian started, looking down at the elven child who carried a corpse.

"I'm going to find Tormey." Tathas gave a respectful nod to the elder, then to Duncan.

Duncan wondered if maybe he should consider two recruits from the alienage… no, she was a child still. Perhaps with some skills, but a child regardless.

Valendrian let out a long breath. "Now tell me," he said, turning to the two remaining elves, "What happened?"

"The arl's family just got a little bit smaller," Isefel said with grim satisfaction.

"Then the garrison could already be on their way. You have little time."

"I… may need to leave Denerim for a while. If they're hunting me, they might leave the alienage alone."

Brave, clever, skilled, but also concerned with the welfare of others. Duncan made his decision.

"Ahh, that it has come to this." Valendrain bemoaned. An elven man ran up to them, panicked.

"The guards are here!"

"Don't panic. Let's see what comes of this."

Isefel's eyes went wide. "Duncan, I believe these are yours." She handed his blades back to him, turning to Soris. "Soris, give me your sword. And take off your vest, you've got some blood on it."

"Wha—"

"Just do it!"

Duncan watched with slight confusion as Isefel took Soris's vest and threw it behind a barrel, until suddenly he realized what she was doing. The garrison rounded the street corner and approached, only to find an elven woman soaked in blood, carrying a blade, while elves around her appeared relatively uninvolved.

She was protecting her family. Ready to take the fall for everything.

"I seek Valendrian, elder and administrator of the alienage!" The captain announced, eyes already trained on Isefel.

"Here, captain." Valendrian stepped forwards. "I take it you are here in response to todays disruption?"

"Don't play ignorant with me, elder. You will not prevent justice from being done. The arl's son lies dead and dismembered in river of blood that runs through the entire palace! And it seems I have found one of those responsible." The captain stepped around Valendrian to Isefel, who looked at him impassively. "Who were your accomplices? I need names, and I need them now!" He barked.

"You misunderstand, captain. I am the one responsible. The only one." Isefel adjusted her grip on the stolen sword, not threatening, but enough to remind the guard that she was armed.

The captain cast the blade a wary eye, but still seemed unconvinced. "You expect me to believe one woman did all of that?"

"We are not all so helpless, captain," said Valendrian.

"You save many by coming forward. I do not envy your fate, but I applaud your courage." The captain turned to address the small crowd that was gathering at the scene. "This elf will wait in the dungeons until the arl returns. The rest of you, back to your houses! Men, disarm and bind her."

Two guards approached Isefel with shackles in their hands. Duncan stepped in front of her. "Captain… a word, if you please?"

"What is it, Grey Warden? The situation is well under control, as you can see."

"Be that as it may, I hereby invoke the Grey Warden's Rite of Conscription. I remove this woman into my custody."

Isefel blinked. "You can do that?"

"Son of a tied down— very well, Grey Warden; I cannot challenge your rights, but I'll ask one thing: get this elf out of the city. Today."

Duncan nodded. "Agreed."

The captain turned away. "Now, I need to get my men on the streets before this news hits. Move out!"

Duncan turned to Isefel. "You're with me, now. Say your goodbyes, and see me when you are ready. We leave immediately."

"But… what's going to happen here?" she asked with a glance to the elder.

"For the moment they are fine. There are far more important matters arising that endanger more than just your people."

"So I'm a Grey Warden now, just like that?"

"I needed a Grey Warden recruit, and I found one. That conscripting you saved your life is only circumstance. You did what was necessary accomplish your mission and protect your comrades. We need people like you. Now quickly, say your goodbyes. Your life here is over."

Isefel felt dazed, like she'd been struck upside the head. Maybe the blood loss from the eye was finally getting to her.

"Thank you," said Soris, "You really saved my hide back there."

"I just did what was right."

"As you always do. You're always looking out for me, and for the others. I want to follow your example. No more daydreaming—I'm settling down. Valora's a good woman, and she has ideas on making life here better for everyone." He'd come a long way from the sniveling little kid she used to chase around with a stick. He would be okay. "Shianni and the others headed back to your place. Will you see them, before you go?"

"Of course."

"Good luck, cousin. You've been my hero since we were kids. It's just official, now."

As she passed through the alienage and elves wished her good luck and safe travels, the reality of what just happened hit her like a falling boulder. She was leaving. Likely, forever. She didn't know anything but the city. Part of her always wanted this… but this wasn't exactly how she'd envisioned the circumstances of her departure.

Her father stood outside their home, and his eyes lit up when he saw her and her ran to meet her, sweeping Isefel up in an embrace. "You're home. Maker be praised." He pulled back, horrified when he took in her face. "Come inside. Valora just finished stitching Nelaros's arm; let's get you taken care of."

Wordlessly, she followed her father into the house and sat at the table. Valora was finishing with a patch on Nelaros's arm. Valora soaked a cloth in a mixture of alcohol and elfroot before turning to Isefel. "This will sting, but prevent infection."

Her father helped her unwrap the scraps of wedding dress and allowed Valora and her father to clean her wound.

While they were fussing over her, Isefel saw Tathas slip into the house. Tathas only spared Isefel a glance before she headed for the back rooms.

"The wound will heal, but the eye is a loss. You'll adapt, I'm certain." Cyrion sighed.

"Father… I have to leave." Isefel finally said. "I took the fall for what happened, the garrison was going to take me. Duncan recruited me out from under them. I have to leave with him."

He placed a bandage patch over her freshly cleaned wound. "If… this is what the Maker has planned for you, then I guess it's for the best. Your mother would have been pleased."

"And you're not?"

"I just wish there was another way. I dreamed of grandchildren, family gatherings, and…" He sighed. "I'm sorry. This isn't helping."

"So…" Nelaros shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. "I guess that means we won't be getting married."

"Nelaros… I'm sorry." Strangely enough, she meant it. He didn't deserve this to happen to him any more than the rest of them.

"What? For saving yourself and everyone else? Don't be silly. I guess we'll never know what could have been." Nelaros shrugged.

"What will you do now? Are you going to stay in Denerim?"

Nelaros shook his head. "No offense, but I don't think Denerim agrees with me. I need to return to my family in Highever. I'll need to find some work first though, make enough money to afford passage back."

Isefel thought for a moment. "I have a friend named Nessa. She and her family are moving to Highever, leaving today. Perhaps they'd allow you to accompany them."

"Really? Seems you have a solution for nearly everything," he said, chuckling slightly. "I'd better catch them before they go, then. Shianni is waiting for you in the back. Take care of yourself." Nelaros inclined his head to her in respect and departed.

Before Isefel could rise from the chair, Valora was hugging her. "Thank you. For me, for Soris, for everything. I'll never be able to repay you."

Isefel laughed softly and waited for Valora to release her before standing. "Just be good to Soris. That's more than enough."

"I will, I swear it! I'll let you go see Shianni. She seems to have regained herself. Good luck out there, and thank you again." Valora left, presumably to go find Soris.

Shianni was sitting on Isefel's bunk in a change of clothes, Tathas quietly working at applying bandages to the wound on her leg. "I heard what you told the others," said Shianni, "You took all the responsibility for what happened. You're amazing, you know that?"

"I just did what was right. How are you holding up?"

"You always do. They'll write legends about you, someday. And… I'm… alright. I was able to fight them off for a little bit thanks to that little blade of yours, but if you all had been even moments slower…" Shianni shuddered. "I don't want to think about that. As it is, the worst damage I suffered was from scraping myself with the knife when I pulled it out of my boot. How do you get it in and out so fluidly all the time?"

Isefel couldn't help but smile a bit. "Lots and lots of practice. I've done the same thing a couple times myself, over the years."

Slowly, Shianni smiled up at Isefel. "When the world was at its worst, there you came—bloodied and strong, like something out of a storybook. A hero facing down a villain from my worst nightmares. And then you, you little menace." Shianni pinched Tathas's arm affectionately, "When a blade was aimed at my throat, you stood in front of me like a shield, fire your eyes. You're not half bad, kid."

"Oh, shut up. I'm not the one who's leaving, don't get all mushy with me," Tathas flicked Shianni's nose, making the older woman laugh.

Shianni sighed. "I love you, Isefel. Make us proud out there."

"I love you too, Shianni." Isefel turned to Tathas. There was so much she wanted to say to the young elf. _I'm proud of you. I'm scared for you. You cause too much trouble. Follow your heart. Do as you're told. Find your own way. You're so strong. You don't always have to be._

"I know," said Tathas, quickly embracing Isefel. Isefel blinked and frowned. She hadn't said any of that out loud. Maybe it was just one of those things that didn't need to be spoken.

"You're a weird kid."

"You have no idea, cousin." Tathas laughed, nodding her head towards the door. "Get going, or your Warden will leave without you."

Isefel changed into her work clothes and packed quickly, grabbing only the essentials. She gave her father one last hug before leaving the house.

"Take care, my girl. Be safe. And wise. And… you know. We'll all miss you."

"I love you, Father. Maker willing, I'll see you again someday."

"Maker willing. Now go on. Go save the world."

Most everyone had funneled back into their homes. She passed Nola's home, and heard loud weeping from within. Isefel's heart ached. A loss in the alienage was felt by everyone. At least they'd recovered her body. She deserved to be sent off properly.

The elder waited at Duncan's side.

He smiled ruefully. "Well, I guess Duncan got his recruit after all."

"Being a Grey Warden does sound significantly more appealing than a slow death in Fort Drakon, at least."

"True enough, I suppose." Valendrian sighed. "You were the reason he came here. Perhaps this is for the best. If you'll excuse me, I must attend to our people, and arrange for Nola's funeral. Goodbye, young one, and Maker keep you."

"Are you ready to go?" asked Duncan.

No.

"Ready as I'll ever be."


	13. A Blighted Mirror (Part 1)

Cousland took a stone from the ground and hurled it, crashing the window open. Liri shook the last stink bomb and launched it into the air, sending it through the broken window. She turned to the others. _"That's all of them. We better book it."_

Edmund looked up at the palace, concern in his eyes. "Do you think this is enough?" He asked the rest of them. "Maybe we should go in, just in case—"

Liri felt herself inclined to agree with him. Maybe they'd managed to buy the elves some time, but unless they went in there was no way to tell if they'd actually been helpful. They were already here—why not just go in?

"Everyone, get back!" Aothor hissed, moving away from the palace building and to a small shed some distance away. "Some of the guards are leaving the building—we can't be seen here."

Somewhat regretfully, Liri and the others followed after him, ducking behind the cover. Sure enough, a group of about seven guards filed out of the exit, gagging and covering their faces. Liri couldn't help but be somewhat proud—she'd managed to capture the potent sewer smell in the mixture perfectly.

She eyed the guards and turned back to the others. _"We're already here. There are only those guards by the entrance right now. We could just kill them and get inside," _she said. "_No one can tell about the Warden's involvement if there's no one left alive to say anything, right?"_

Edmund chuckled, though mostly to himself. "The two types of stealth—regular stealth, and Russian stealth."

Cousland blinked at him, very understandably confused. "What in the Maker's name are you talking about?"

"Doesn't matter," Aothor said, shaking his head at them. "We've already involved ourselves more than we should. We need to head back to the market so we can meet up with Duncan."

Liri couldn't help but roll her eyes. Leave it to the prince to be a downer. _"Can't you pull the stick out of your ass for just a minute?"_

Aothor glanced at her, obviously irritated, but on the whole decided to ignore her comment. "We've given the elves the chance they need to get through this alive. It's up to them now. If we went into the castle now, I suspect we'd just cause more problems for the elves than we'd solve. It'll put the guards on alert, and they'll lose what little advantage they have." Before he'd even finished speaking he was already moving to the back exit of the gate's they'd come through.

Stupid Warden rules. Liri shared a look with the two humans before looking back at the estate. Aothor had something of a point. Maybe they'd done enough with their stink-bomb vandalism. But it felt wrong to just walk away.

With a sigh she turns and began following after Aothor, with the humans joining just heartbeats later. She looked the three men over, wrinkling her nose. _"Do you think Duncan will let us stay here long enough for you guys to get a bath?"_

Edmund grimaced. "He was talking like he wanted us moving as soon as possible. I get the feeling we're going to have to leave the city pretty quickly."

"_Hm, you know what, maybe it's a tactical choice," _said Liri, smiling mischievously._ "If we keep you stinking like this until Ostagar, maybe you can kill the darkspawn with your stench alone!" _

"Speaking from experience, darkspawn don't seem to care too much about smells," Aothor said.

Liri glared at him. Did he have to take it upon himself to take the fun out of the moment? Though, she noted begrudgingly to herself, that was actually good advice. If she ever made more stink bombs in the future, they would be wasted on darkspawn.

Cousland took the front of the group, leading them through the city to the market district. Passersby gave them a wide berth of space, and understandably so.

"_Duncan said he would wait for the elves in the alienage. Should we meet him there?"_ Liri asked.

"I think we should head back to the inn where he told us to meet," Cousland said, "If we go to the alienage ourselves, it'll probably cause a bit of a scene."

"Actually, we never finished shopping. We still need to pick up bedrolls and food for the trip." Aothor said.

Liri sighed. The three of them had one job—handle the shopping. And they'd managed to mess it up spectacularly. Though maybe that was for the best—if she hadn't found them in the sewers, she wouldn't have had the idea for a stink bomb.

She watched the market around them as the guys dealt with some rightly disgusted merchants. The rest of Denerim was perfectly peaceful, blissfully unaware of the horror striking the alienage because of Vaughan. It was jarring.

The street urchins she'd previously noticed were still about, but didn't dare venture close to them—whether because of the smell or if they'd learned their lesson last time they tried to rob their group, she couldn't really say. Didn't really matter, she supposed, as long as they kept away.

Lady wandered a short distance away, sticking her nose into a trash pile and sniffing with great interest. Liri sighed—guess the dog was going to stink now, too.

She caught sight of Duncan walking across the square, Isefel walking with him. Guess he got is recruit, after all.

She wasn't the only one who noticed. Edmund spotted them as well and began making his way over with barely a word to the others as they finalized their transactions. Liri followed hot on his heels.

He waved to get Duncan's attention, though it was hardly necessary. The smell coming off the mage got their attention pretty quickly.

"We just finished up the shopping, Duncan. Are your errands taken care of?" Edmund asked, an air of expectancy about him. Liri looked up at Isefel and took in her damaged eye—whatever happened in that castle hadn't been good. Edmund realized her injury almost immediately after. "Oh, damn. Are you okay?"

Isefel rolled a shoulder in a sort of half shrug. "Okay as I can be. Who are you?" She held herself carefully, wary of them. Liri was vaguely aware of Cousland and Aothor joining their group.

"Isefel, may I present your fellow Grey Warden Recruits," Duncan said, gesturing to them. "Recruits, this is Isefel Tabris. From this day forward she will be joining our number. We can get on with introductions on the road—it's best we not linger in the city."

"_We're glad to have you,"_ said Liri. Isefel looked between her and Aothor as he translated with thinly veiled confusion. Yeah, it figured that she couldn't understand. _"It's about time we got another girl in the group. Earlier these three boys got themselves robbed and trapped in the sewers." _The three let out a collective sigh.

Aothor ran a hand over his face as he finished translating. She had to give him credit—he didn't even try and censor or sugar coat what she was saying. "I know we're never going to live that down and all, but did you have to open with that? It's not the kind of first impression I typically like to make."

Liri smirked. It was their own fault, really. They just made it too easy, and the prince's irritation at it only made her want to do it more. And just as she'd hoped, the interaction seemed to cause Isefel to relax, even if only a little bit.

"Guess that explains the stink, then. I was going to ask, but I didn't want to be rude," Isefel said. As she took them in something changed in her expression, like she was putting a puzzle together and the pieces just clicked. "Earlier… in the Arl's palace… someone threw in rancid gas and flushed out a lot of the guards. It smelled like sewage. Did you guys…?"

Ah. A small part of her was really hoping she wouldn't have put it together. But honestly—the stink about them was a dead give-away. Liri was very aware of Duncan's sharp gaze on her, and she was very intentionally not meeting it, and only shrugged in response.

Edmund, however, did not seem to have the same good sense about him. "So did it help?" he asked eagerly.

Isefel blinked at them, genuine surprise on her face. "Well, kind of. It cleared the way some. But how—?"

"You disobeyed a direct order," Duncan said, breaking of the elf's question. Liri finally brought herself to meet his eyes. She didn't really have a reference for what it was like to have a father look at her in disappointment, but she imagined it was something similar to this. "I explicitly told you we could not get involved in the situation, and yet you proceeded against my word."

"_Well… you actually told me I couldn't enter the palace. And I didn't. At most, the involvement stops at petty vandalism, not murder of nobility. So, no foul?"_ Liri said, chuckling nervously.

Duncan pinched his brow like he had a headache. "That is not what I meant, and you know it."

"We took steps to make sure we weren't seen. There's no traceable connection to what happened in that palace and us, odor aside." Aothor said. Liri cast him a sideways glance. Of all the people to back her up, she wasn't really expecting him. "I know there are reasons why we can't get involved with these situations, that there are rules we have to abide by to protect our Order and our place in Ferelden. Because I know this, I should have stopped them, but I did not. I'm willing to bear responsibility for my fellow recruits and the actions taken today."

That… she was expecting even less. What was up with this guy?

Duncan gave the four of them a long, weary look, but there was a trace of fondness in his eyes. Just a trace. At his side, Isefel looked understandably confused and more than a little overwhelmed.

"What is done, is done, I suppose. We can speak more of this later. Given today's events, the guard captain has requested we leave Denerim immediately, and we must make up lost time on the road regardless," he said. Liri looked back at Isefel. What exactly had she done in that palace that they were banishing her? Probably what Vaughan deserved, honestly. "You said you've finished acquiring everything?"

Cousland nodded. "That's right. We're ready to go; and if we could find a stream to rinse off in on the road, I think we would all benefit," he said. Duncan nodded in agreement, and Cousland turned back to the market, sticking his fingers in his mouth and letting out a shrill whistle. Lady came bounding across the market, a rat clenched in her jaws and tail wagging. "Oh look, you got yourself a snack. Good girl!" He praised, scratching her behind the hears. "Isefel, this is Lady. Lady, this is Isefel."

Liri realized right away that something was wrong. Isefel went completely rigid, backing up a step as Lady approached them. Even more telling that the glinting steel of a dagger palmed in her hand.

This… could be problematic.

Peter noticed as well and placed a firm hand on Liri's collar, holding the mabari close to his side though she strained slightly to investigate the newcomer to the group. "You can go ahead and let her smell your hand—that'll probably calm her down," he said, voice calmer and gentler than Liri ever remembered hearing from him, aside from when he spoke to his nephew.

"I'll pass, thanks," Isefel said distantly. She seemed to relax herself a bit, but still looked far from interested in getting anywhere near the mabari. Liri blinked and the blade was gone from her hand—where had she put it? And furthermore, how could she learn that trick? "Don't we have places to be going?"

Duncan sighed. "Let us be off—Ostagar awaits."

Isefel couldn't decide what to make of the group. She didn't know what she was expecting, exactly… but it wasn't this.

Each of her fellow recruits introduced themselves briefly as they left the gates of the city. Isefel couldn't help but leave a lingering look as they left her home—would she ever be able to return?

Duncan, at least, was something of a known element. The elder's friend, someone who had apparently aided Tathas and the others with the rescue attempt. He seemed a knight with a good heart, and Maker knows those were in short supply in the world.

The dwarven woman who spoke with her hands—Liri, the others had called her—seemed to be the most animated of the group despite her apparent muteness. Though, perhaps not so mute; Isefel heard her laugh loudly at something said by the dark-haired human. So why was she unable to speak? More interesting than that, she seemed to be the mastermind behind the stink bombs in the arl's palace.

The dwarven man who acted as Liri's translator seemed like more of a known element. Aothor carried himself like more of a proper soldier than any of the others, duty and strength even in his stance. Edmund seemed almost the opposite—he had the build and features of a scholar and leaned on a staff to walk, and if Isefel was surveying him correctly he had a recent injury to his shoulder.

Isefel absently adjusted the bandage around her eye. Her head ached—but it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been earlier in the day. Valora's painkilling herbs were doing their work.

Of all the recruits, it was Cousland that her mind kept focusing on. Partly out of wariness of his pet—because of course he had to have a mabari, that was just her kind of luck—but mostly because she couldn't shake the feeling that she knew that name from somewhere. He didn't look familiar in any way, but still the name stuck.

She might have even bothered to ask him about it if he didn't keep that bloody hound at his side all the time. No way was she willingly moving closer to it. Just the sound of its breathing made her hairs stand on end.

Isefel moved to walk with Duncan as he lead their entourage down the King's Highway. "How long until we reach Ostagar?"

Duncan made a considering sort of sound. "So long as we face no more delays, and we make decent pace on the road, I would say we will arrive in five days time."

She turned out to the landscape around them. To see a world without buildings and walls to block the horizon, for a space to be devoid of crowds and groups of people… she found it all more than a little foreign. She felt like she'd stepped into a different reality. The fact that she was surrounded by humans and dwarves didn't help her alien feeling.

"Have there ever been any elven Grey Wardens?" she asked, more to carry on a conversation than anything else.

To her surprise, Duncan actually nodded. "In fact, some of our greatest heroes have been elven. The Warden Garahel, he that slew the last Archdemon, was such a one."

"And… what's an Archdemon?"

"They are the Old Gods of the Tevinter Imperium, ancient dragons that become corrupted by the Blight and head the darkspawn hordes."

Isefel blinked. Was he for real? "And an elf killed one? Truly? You're not having me on?"

"Not at all. Elves have always served with distinction in our ranks. There are currently no elves among our Ferelden ranks, but know that you will be most welcome," said Duncan, smiling warmly.

"Why don't more people know about this? If an elf saved Thedas, then why haven't I heard this story before?" Isefel ask, unable to help but think of those kids earlier in the alienage. Why should they have to settle for made up stories when real ones existed?

"It is all too often that heroes are forgotten by those they save."

Isefel resolved herself that no matter what happened, she would not let the world forget her, nor the point of her ears.

She stumbled a step, and Duncan held out a hand to steady her. "I'm fine," she said, straightening herself.

Duncan's brow creased. "I'm sure you are—but you've lost a lot of blood." He turned back to the group and gestured for Edmund to come over to them. "Are you able to heal her eye?"

The man shook his head. "Healing isn't really my thing, otherwise I'd have taken care of this days ago," he said, gesturing to his shoulder. So, he was injured, after all. "I'm worried if I try on her eye, I could just make it worse."

Isefel put the pieces together. Talking about healing, the staff he carried, the scholarly appearance… "You're a mage."

"Oh, yeah, I am. Guess I forgot to mention that. I thought it was pretty obvious, though. I mean, with the staff and all…" Edmund said, twisting it in his grip.

"I really should have realized that sooner, I'll admit—but I've had other things on my mind." What did it say about her life that a mage wasn't even the most foreign thing about her circumstances?

"Right, I guess I can understand that," he said. The mage looked at her for a moment, a question obviously building inside him. Isefel raised a brow, waiting for him to just ask. "How's your family, and the other girls that Vaughan took? Are they… is everyone okay?"

Isefel couldn't help but be surprised that he'd actually asked, but then again, he and the others had gone out of their way to aid with the stink bombs, apparently even against Duncan's orders. "They're fine. Great even, now that Vaughan is dead."

"So you killed him," Edmund said, giving her a look something akin to approval. "Good. Glad to hear he got what he deserved."

"He deserved worse," she said, voice heavy. "I made it too quick. He deserved to suffer more."

"There is a small stream that runs along the road not far ahead of us," Duncan said, inserting himself back into the conversation. "I believe we should take the opportunity to stop for a quick rest and allow for these young men to wash themselves off." He began down the road again, the rest of them following after him.

"_It's about time,"_ said Liri, Aothor voicing for her. _"I think all my nose hairs have withered and died."_

"Easy for you to say—you're not the one actively reeking of fermented shit," Cousland said with a dry laugh. The hound at his side barked along with him and Isefel resisted the monumental urge to draw a blade. It was on their side. For all intents and purposes, it was an ally.

But old habits died hard.

Isefel moved to stand beside the mage as they all walked down the road. She couldn't help but wonder… "Are you from the Circle here in Ferelden?"

"Yeah. Not gonna lie, I'm glad to be out of there."

"I can imagine." The alienage was enough of a cage. She could only imagine what the Circle was like. If it was anything like her mother told her, it didn't sound like a great place. "Did you ever meet a mage named Lastara?"

Edmund was quiet for a moment, a distant look in his eyes. "I… I don't think so. At least, the name doesn't sound familiar. Why? Someone you know?" 

"My aunt," Isefel said, unable to stop herself from hoping just the smallest bit. "She was in and out of the Circle a few times over the years with various escape attempts. We haven't seen her since the templars took her away last time, and she hasn't answered any of our letters. I just wondered… I wondered if she was well. Are you sure you don't know of her?"

"No, I don't recognize the name at all. I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head a bit. Isefel tried not to let the disappointment show on her face. It was a childish hope and she knew it. Still, Edmund must have noticed the change in her demeanor. "Mages get transferred between Circles all the time, though. If the templars had a problem with her escaping and going to Denerim, they might have just sent her somewhere farther away."

Isefel offered a smile, but it was hollow. "Maybe. I was just curious—don't think about it any longer." It was foolish of her to even have asked. She turned back to the others, who were clearly listening in on their conversation by nature of their proximity and trying very hard to look like they weren't. "So, where are the rest of you from?"

"Liri and I are from Orzammar," Aothor said, "We've been on the surface less than a week."

"Really?" she said, brow raised. "I'd have never guessed you were so fresh from the city. Most dwarves that I've met who've come up from Orzammar are… jumpier."

Liri half-snorted a laugh. _"It's easier to adapt when you just stop giving a shit."_

"That's one way to approach it, I suppose," Isefel chuckled.

"In spite of just about everything that's happened since we came up here, the surface isn't as bad as I thought it would be. I might even grow to like it a little, in time," Aothor said, absently stroking his beard.

Isefel glanced back at Cousland. Maybe if she could pin down where he was from, she could figure out why he seemed familiar. "What about you?"

"Highever was my home," Cousland said.

Oh. "So… Cousland, like the Couslands of Highever?" Of course. How had it taken her so long to make the connection? Only the wealthy could typically afford mabari, and the one at his side was as purebred as they came. It made sense he was a noble. "What's a nobleman doing with the Grey Wardens?"

Cousland cast a glance out at the group before focusing back on her. "The same thing I imagine most of us are doing with the Wardens—surviving."

"Touchè," she said as Duncan lead them slightly off the road. He was a noble—but he'd helped deal with Vaughan, even if only a little bit. Nelaros's words from earlier echoed in the back of her mind and she turned to Cousland again. "Do you know an elf named Nelaros?"

Cousland scratched at his head as he thought. "I think so. Nelaros the blacksmith? Blond elven fellow?"

"Yes, that's him." Nelaros said the teyrn's sons had taught him and a few other elves how to defend themselves. That spoke better of him than most lords, at least. It was too soon to be certain of his character, but as long as he kept his dog out of her way, they didn't need to have a problem. For now, at least.

"I can't say I knew him well, but I'm familiar enough. He's from Highever though, so how do you know him? Just one of those small-world type things?"

"I was supposed to marry him today."

"Oh." Cousland faltered, clearly not sure how to react to the statement. "Um… my condolences, I guess? Or, congratulations?"

They were saved from the awkward lull in the conversation by Duncan bringing them to the river. Isefel seated herself on the bank, eager for a chance to rest, and Liri did similarly.

Aothor and Cousland stood on the bank and began removing their gear, but Edmund waded straight into the river.

"Um… what are you doing?" Cousland asked, watching the mage as he dunked himself under the water.

Edmund shook his hair out. "I'm washin' me and my clothes," he said with a strange level of humor, like he was making an inside joke that no one else was actually in on.

Aothor sighed, wading into the water in just his trousers. "The chaffing is going to be terrible. You know that, right?"

Edmund's face fell. "Oh. Guess I didn't think about that," he said as the others all laughed. "Shit, and here I thought I was being efficient."

Valendrain said that the Grey Wardens were an order of heroes—brave warriors who stood to defend all life against an unimaginable evil since the earliest of times. Grey Wardens were supposed to be individuals of legendary skill and ability, figures of might and capability.

So how in the Makers name did they end up with this group?

The light of the sunset filtered through the treetops, scattering golden rays into the forest below. Rosaya settled her back against the tree, letting her legs dangle. A few branches below her Tamlen did similarly as he finished climbing up.

"I guess now that the trap's set, all that's left it to wait," he said.

Rosaya crushed up a handful of dead leaves in her hand, then released the pieces into the air and watched as the wind carried them just a short distance away. "The wind isn't strong—if we're lucky, the wolves won't have detected our scent in the area yet."

"Good. We need to deal with them today—if they keep harassing our halla, it's only a matter of time before we lose one," Tamlen said, swinging his legs idly. "Say, weren't you supposed to be assisting Master Ilen today? How did you end up coming with me to take care of the wolves?"

Rosaya shrugged. "I wanted to spend the day with you, obviously." She nudged his head with her foot lightly, drawing a smile to his face.

"I… thought that might be the case. I'm glad."

"Besides, everyone knows you couldn't set a trap to catch a fawn if your life depended on it. Maybe if I do a good job, I can finally prove myself to the clan and earn my vallaslin."

"First of all, ouch, second of all, that's fair. And you will soon enough. I wouldn't rush for it, if I were you. It will come when the time is right."

Rosaya rolled her eyes. "You're just saying that because you wimped out the first time the Keeper started applying yours." Tamlen blushed profusely, ears turning red. "For the record, I think you looked quite dashing the week you spent with only half your face inked. I hear asymmetrical fashions are all the rage in human settlements."

"Oh, quit teasing," he said, though he continued to smile. "It hurts a lot, alright? It's not so unusual to have to get it done in two sittings. Besides, I've barely had mine for three months. You're only a year younger than I am, so I'm sure the Keeper is getting ready to give you yours soon."

She sighed, leaning her head back against the bark as she surveyed the forest around them. "Doesn't feel like it. Marethari and the elders always talk to me like I'm some doe-eyed da'len. I'm tired of it. I need to prove myself—" She froze mid-sentence as a rustling sound began to pick up in the distance.

It wasn't the wolves—no way they would make so much noise. She met Tamlen's gaze, the two of them realizing at the same time what it was.

Shemlen.

A group of three emerged from the underbrush, running wildly in their direction. Tamlen's hand fell to his bow, but Rosaya caught his eye and shook her head, unable to keep the mischief out of her expression. Tamlen looked at her in confusion, then back down that the shemlen, eyes following the direction their feet were carrying them.

It was a truly beautiful series of events. They tripped over the wire she had set up, falling forwards one on top of the other. The release sprang and the net closed around them, lifting them high into the air.

They screamed and thrashed, but with the design of her net the more they moved the more ensnared they became. Neither she nor Tamlen could keep themselves from laughing.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Tamlen said, swinging down to the forest floor and looking up at their new captives. "A bunch of bandits, no doubt." He held his bow out, preparing an arrow.

"W-we're not bandits! I swear! Please, just don't hurt us."

Tamlen scoffed. "You shemlen are pathetic. It's hard to believe you ever drove us from our homeland.

Rosaya remained in the branches, standing on them with practiced balance so her face was level with the humans suspended in the net. She twirled an arrow over in her fingers, thoughtful. They were red in the face from running, out of breath and drenched in sweat.

More than anything, all three were terrified. "We haven't done nothing to you Dalish! We didn't even know this forest was yours!"

"This forest isn't ours, you fool." Tamlen rolled his eyes. "You've just stumbled too close to our camp. You shems are like vermin—we can't trust you not to make mischief," he said, casting a glance up towards her. "What do you say, lethallan? What should we do with them?"

"I'm curious about what they're doing all the way out here," Rosaya said, solely focused on the humans. "The nearest human settlement is hours away. There's nothing out here but wilderness."

"Does it matter? Hunting or banditry, we'll have to move the camp if we let them live."

"Ow, Todd, your elbow's in my face," hissed one of the humans to his friend. "L-look, we didn't come here for trouble. We just found a cave…"

"Yes, yes! A cave with ruins like we've never seen! We thought there might be… ah…"

"Treasure," Tamlen said, finishing the sentence for them with a shake of his head. "So you're more akin to thieves than actual bandits."

Rosaya couldn't be sure what to make of it. Certainly there were caves in the area, but none of their hunters had ever come across any sort of ruins. If they hadn't, what were the odds that a group of shemlen would? "If you've been there, you should have some treasure to prove it."

"I… I have proof!" said the one at the bottom of their pile-up. "It's, ah, in my pocket, so if you could just let us down…?" Rosaya only glared at them, readying her arrow on the string. "Ah, or not. Finn, it's in my back, pocket, could you…?" After a moment of fumbling from the captives, they dropped a small object on the ground at Tamlen's feet, who carefully lifted it into his hands. "We found that just inside the entrance."

Tamlen went perfectly till. "This stone has carvings… is this elvish? _Written_ elvish?"

"There's more where that came from in the ruins! We didn't get very far in, though…"

Rosaya couldn't see the stone from up in the tree, but it sounded too impossible to believe. A relic of her people? Such things were so rare. That the humans had thought to invade their ancestors resting places irked her. "What a wonder to see such stalwart bravado in ones such as yourselves. It is heartwarming, truly, to see that there are humans willing to risk such a slow and torturous death in pursuit of the People's sacred treasures."

"I've seen something similar to these marks in the Keeper's scrolls." Tamlen looked back up at the humans, and something had changed about his expression. "Is this all you found? Why didn't you look for more?"

Fear returned to the faces of the shems, though not fear of the two of them. "There was a demon! It was huge, with black eyes! Thank the Maker we were able to outrun it!"

"Hmph. A demon. And where is this cave?"

"With the way this damn thing's spinning I can't really tell… but I think it was off that way? Out to the west a bit. There's a cave in the rockface, and this huge hole just inside."

"Well?" Tamlen looked back up to her again. "Do you trust them? Should we let them go?"

Rosaya aimed her bow upwards and let her arrow loose, cutting the line that held them aloft. "If we kill them it will only bring more trouble for the clan," she said as the humans crashed to the earth and began desperately un-tangling themselves. "Know that you have been spared by the grace of the Dalish."

Tamlen returned his arrow to his quiver. "Run along then, shems. And don't come back until we have moved on."

"Of course! Thank you, thank you!" They cried out, finally freeing themselves and running away from them without a moment of hesitation.

Rosaya climbed down from the tree and came to stand beside Tamlen. She hoped that sparing them wouldn't come back to bite them later. It was always a dice roll on whether or not the humans left them alone, and more often than not it seemed the dice were loaded against them.

"Well, shall we see if there's any truth to their story? These carvings make me curious." Tamlen held out the artifact for her to see.

It was fairly small, no taller than her hand, but the detail was astounding. It was a small stone statue of a woman with halla-like antlers standing atop a crescent moon, two hares flanking her sides. It stood upon a circular base, the rim of which bore an intricate inscription of elegant, swirling words.

Though she couldn't decipher what they said, she had a clear enough clue as to who the figure was. "I think this is supposed to be Ghilan'nain—at least, it matches Harhen Paivel's stories about her."

"I figured that much out for myself, funnily enough," Tamlen said, "So what do you say, want to see if there's more where this came from?"

An idea turned over in her mind. The Keeper would certainly be interested in the carvings. How much more interested would she be if they found a whole ruin? Maybe this could be her chance to prove herself to the clan. "I think that's a great idea," she said. "Let's see what all the fuss is about."

"My thoughts exactly. Now, they said it was to the west…"

Rosaya stopped only long enough to collect her trap equipment before turning to the forest around them and starting in the direction the humans had run from. They hadn't been careful at all—tracks obviously left in the mud, branches snapped an left hanging in their wake—they might as well have put a signpost showing where they came from.

She followed the signs as she saw them, Tamlen quick behind her. He stopped her short, grabbing onto her arms. "Listen, you hear that?"

Rosaya paused, straining her ears. Light rustling in the foliage off to their left, and the quiet rumble of growls. She took aim with her bow and fired, arrow sinking into the dark grey hide of a wolf as it yelped in pain.

Though that one fell, four more emerged, snarling with bloody maws. Rosaya drew another arrow back as Tamlen did the same, the two of them standing back to back as the wolves advanced towards them. Together they let their arrows fly, and by the time it found it's mark in the wolf's eye she had another one ready to fire.

She could not see how Tamlen was fairing, but from the whining and yelps it sounded like he was doing fine. The next wolf leapt at her as the released her arrow, and it's body fell just at her feet as she stuck the arrow through it's neck.

She turned to stand by Tamlen's side. One of the wolves was dead, but the other was still alive, though bleeding and fallen to the ground. Two arrows protruded out of it's side. It was dying, but slowly.

Tamlen looked at it grimly. "Creators, I always hate this part," he said, drawing his knife. The wolf snarled as he approached, but before it could do anything else Tamlen had finished it off. "May you hunt forever in the Beyond."

"They were eating something," Rosaya said, eyeing the blood on their teeth. "We must have caught them in the middle of supper." Unable to help herself, she moved back into the undergrowth they had come from. "Oh. Tamlen… they got one of the halla."

Tamlen was quick behind her, eyes wide as he took in the bloodied halla carcass. A dead wolf lay not far from her, with obvious wounds from her horns. At least she hadn't gone down without a fight. "Can you tell which one it is?"

"I'm not sure, but I think this is Inalanen. She always did like to wander." Rosaya knelt by the halla, lifting the limp head in her hands and gazing into her lifeless eyes.

"You know I don't buy into all of Harhen Paivel's superstitions… but a dead halla is supposed to be bad luck."

She glanced up at him, brow raised. "Camp's back that way, if you want to leave."

"No way—I'm sticking this through," he said, shaking his head. "We should tell Maren when we get back to camp. Someone can come back later to collect her horns."

"Of course." Rosaya reached and closed Inalanen's eyes, so that if one ignored her half-eaten torso, you could think she was sleeping. "_O Falon'Din, Lethanavir—ama ash'shosaan, atish ash'sal, ghi'la a ash'hamin. O Ghilan'nain, Lanalhalla—verema mar'eshalin_." The time to properly mourn the halla would come later, but for now that was all Rosaya could do to send her off.

She looked away from the fallen creature and tried to put it out of her mind. They had other things to deal with at the moment. They continued following the trail left by the humans. The sun had set, and the greyness of dusk began taking hold of the forest.

"Let's try and make this quick—if we're away from the camp too late at night the others might get worried," said Tamlen.

"Hm, I don't know. With some of the comments Ashalle has been making, I don't think anyone is going to wonder much about why we're out late in the woods together alone. I doubt anyone will come looking. They'll probably assume we found some nice secluded glen somewhere," she said, turning back and winking at him.

Tamlen turned bright pink and stammered. Rosaya giggled. He always was so easily flustered. "Ha, erm, right. Ah, what exactly has Ashalle said?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she teased.

"Yes, actually, I'd very much like to know."

Rosaya hummed, but leapt over a log and kept going without answering. Perhaps it was a bit unkind to get him wound up so, but his panic was just a little bit adorable.

"Oh, come on Rosaya, don't leave me in suspense," Tamlen said, catching up and matching her stride.

"Well, recently she's been full of sage advice about bonded life. 'Hunt together at least twice a week,' or 'never argue inside the aravel, take it where only the trees will hear you,' and all that sort of wisdom. I've no idea what's gotten into her, truly," she said, looking at him innocently. "Would you have any clues?"

Tamlen's face suddenly went from beat red to snow white. He chuckled nervously. "Huh, real head-scratcher I guess. Maybe we should, um, wait on figuring it out until we're back in camp."

"That's fine with me," she said, giving him a smile before turning back to follow the humans trail. Ashalle had spotted Tamlen practicing tying bond-knots not that long ago. There was no proof that they were for her, per say, but Rosaya simply knew they were. Now it was only a matter of waiting on her earning her vallaslin and Tamlen building up the courage to actually ask.

The earth sloped down dramatically. She could see the markings in the earth where the humans had crawled their way up. She could make out rubble at the bottom of the ravine, the composition different than the natural rock and stone of the area. They were getting close.

True darkness began to settle on the forest as they descended the slope. The moons were bright tonight, casting enough light that their elven eyes saw well despite the shadows of night. Slowly the rubble became more distinct—fallen pillars, pieces of statues—until finally they found the mouth of the cave and the ruins within.

"This must be the cave," Tamlen said. "I don't recall this being here before, do you?"

"No, I don't," Rosaya said, surveying the structure before them. Though it was now sunken into the rock and obscured by thorny vines, the craftmanship of the ruins implied that this must have once been a structure of magnificence. "Let's check it out."

"Right. With luck, we'll find something that could make us clan heroes!" He said, starting ahead of her into the cave.

"Why are you so interested in all this, exactly?" she asked. Her own reasons were obvious enough—to earn her vallaslin. But Tamlen already had his, and old lore was more Merrill's interest than it ever was his.

He half turned to look back over his shoulder at her. "Aren't you curious? We could be discovering history. Minstrels will write songs about us!"

Rosaya rolled her eyes. "I _am_ curious, otherwise I wouldn't be here. But you're not fooling me, Tamlen."

Tamlen sighed, shoulders sagging slightly. "If I were to bring back some valuable ancestral artifact back to the Keeper, she might forgive me for… well, you know."

"Oh," She said softly. So that was it. "Thank you for covering for me, by the way."

"Of course. You know I'd do anything for you," he said with a smile, hand briefly brushing against hers as she caught up to him. He cleared his throat before continuing on. "At any rate, I wasn't expecting this place to… feel quite like this. Maybe this wasn't the best idea…"

"It's a dark cave with ancient ruins—of course it's going to feel weird. But I don't think we'll run into anything that a pair of Dalish hunters can't handle," she said, twirling an arrow over in her fingers.

Tamlen chuckled. "One Dalish hunter, and a Dalish huntress _apprentice_. It's dark in here, lethallan, but I can still see the bareness of your face."

She reached out and flicked his ear. "_Nuva mar'av aria ma_. It'll only be a matter of time after I bring back something from here to the Keeper. Who knows, I could even earn my marks by morning."

Was he chaffing? Yes, yes he was. Was he about to admit that to any of the others? No, no he was not. He didn't think his pride could take it.

The thought stilled him. Why did this, the stupidest thing, make him think about the demon?

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake away the memory of what had happened in his dreams that night in the cave. He'd been trying to avoid sleeping, or at least not letting himself sleep deeply.

Though the exhaustion was probably getting to him and also affecting his decision-making abilities, the thought of what might await him in the Fade when he finally entered it again unnerved him too much.

He didn't know what he'd done to Pride. Didn't know if Pride was okay. Didn't know why he was so concerned about a literal demon that had tried to possess him.

Pride was the only "person" he'd been able to talk to even somewhat-honestly. He still had to be careful what he told the demon, but somehow, he had been more free when speaking with Pride than he was with the people around him.

How sad was that? 

He resolved that if he did happen to see Pride again, the first thing he would do was ask for a magical remedy to the rash he was currently developing. And then probably apologize. And demand an apology from the demon in turn.

Edmund sighed, rubbing his brow as his though. Right, because that would work. Asking a _Pride _demon to _humble_ itself and _apologize._ At this rate, he'd be lucky if he ever saw Pride again at all, and if the demon didn't just try to kill him on sight.

What a fine mess he'd made for himself.

The hues of sunset began giving way to night as they arrived in a small village. It wasn't anything as large as what Crestwood had been, but it did have a small inn, which meant hot meals and warm beds instead of field rations and pallets on the ground.

While Duncan paid for their meals and rooms for the night and spoke with the owner, the rest of them seated themselves at one of the tables.

"Alright—spill," Cousland said, taking the seat directly across from him.

Edmund blinked at him. "Come again?"

Cousland's expression shifted from neutrality to irritation so quickly it could have broken the sound barrier. "Don't play dumb. You promised us you would explain how you knew about Vaughan's attack once there was time. Well, now there's time."

He had, hadn't he? Well, shit.

He hadn't figured out what he was going to tell them—the only thing he knew for certain was that he could not, under any circumstances, tell them the truth. There was absolutely nothing more unbelievable. Hell, it'd been over a month since he'd been living as Edmund Amell, and _he_ still couldn't even believe it.

"Wait, hold on," Isefel said, leaning forward with interest. "You knew about Vaughan?"

"Um… kind of?" Edmund said, desperately trying not to let his panic show.

"Not just 'kind of,'" Aothor said, resting back in his own chair. Though the former prince's posturing was casual, he looked towards him with no less intensity than Cousland. Just great. "We'd barely been in Denerim more than a handful of minutes before he started going on about it when it hadn't even happened yet."

Isefel turned towards him, and though her face was calm there was something like rage shinning in her eyes. "You knew, and you didn't stop it."

Edmund sighed. "I did _try_. That's kind of how the whole sewer thing happened." Tried to rescue them, maybe, but she was right that he hadn't even tried to stop Vaughan's initial attack. If he'd done that, maybe she'd still have both her eyes.

"You also haven't properly explained how you knew about Howe's betrayal." Cousland said. Ah, so there was the real issue—with Cousland, at least.

"_He said he'd known about Highever a while,"_ said Liri. _"As far as he told me, some people from your human court has been trying to start a revolt amongst the mages, and that Howe was in on it."_ Edmund couldn't help but breathe a small sigh of relief—at least she was on his side about this.

Cousland glanced at Liri somewhat disbelievingly. "And Vaughn would be part of this supposed plot, would he?"

"I believe so, yes," Edmund said. Vaughan actually wasn't connected at all—he was just an ass. But he also conveniently not alive enough to tell anyone otherwise.

"Okay, but how does Vaughan being involved in some random conspiracy connect to him abducting me and my friends? That just seems like Vaughan being his habitually rapist self." There was an edge in Isefel's voice now. Damn it, and they'd been getting along alright, too. "So how did you know about it before it happened?"

"Alright, fine." Edmund braced himself. He was going to need to improvise some absolute bullshit. But he'd been making it up as he went so far, so why shouldn't that work now? "It's kind of a long explanation, so bear with me—"

The door of the tavern slammed open and three men ran in. Edmund couldn't help but be extremely grateful for the distraction—this was in no way a conversation he was ready to have.

"Savages! There's savages in the woods!"

"Todd, is that you?" The barmaid squawked, grabbing the shortest one by his ear. "You were supposed to help your pa butcher the pig today, and instead you go runnin off into the woods!"

"Ow-ow! I'm sorry ma, but listen!" he cried out, pulling away from her grip. "There's savage elves in the woods to the south. We've got to rally the men and drive them out!"

"Oh, there you go with your tall tales—"

"He's telling the truth, Madam Fletch, I swear it! Look, look here at Finn's arm—they tried catching us with a net, and you can see it on his bruise pattern."

The man in question extended his arm, showing off the bruise like it was a badge of honor. "They'd have butchered and eaten us for sure. We barely escaped with our lives. These wild Dalish mean to kill us all!"

Madame Fletch paled as she took in the evidence. Isefel, Cousland, and Aothor all gave him looks that clearly communicated that this conversation wasn't over yet, but they too switched their focus.

"What does he mean, Dalish? They're just a legend—they don't actually exist, right?" Isefel whispered to the others at their table.

Edmund shook his head, still watching the humans. There were three of them—probably the three from the Dalish elf Origin. So, they were close. "They're real, just good at hiding."

"Boys, go and get the other men of the town," Madame Fletch said, drawing herself up. "We'll drive these heathens from out lands before they can butcher out babies for demons and defile our homes." Madame Fletch rounded on their table, taking them in. "Wardens? If you make yourselves useful and help our men drive out these pests, I'll clear your bills for the night—even throw in extra dinks on the house."

Duncan shook his head, rising and turning for the stairs. "We have much road to cover in a short time and a battle awaiting us—we need to take our rest. But I wish safety upon you and yours."

Madame scoffed something about the uselessness of Wardens and swept from the building along with the three men, presumably to rouse the others.

Edmund caught hold of Duncan's arm before he could go upstairs. "Duncan—Mahariel. That's the last one. Clan Sabrae. And it's to the south—it's basically on our way."

Duncan looked at him doubtfully, but that expression changed as he looked past him to the other recruits. Brosca, Aeducan, Cousland, and Tabris all sat behind him, unaware they were helping prove his point.

Duncan sighed and turned towards the door instead. "Come. We have business in the forest tonight."

Rosaya lead the way into the cave, pushing the gnarled growth aside to make a path from them. Her eyes adjusted as the darkened interior encased them, but still they could see enough to make out the design of the interior.

"It… looks like the shems were telling the truth. But these ruins look more human than elven," he said, glancing about uneasily. Perhaps, though the stone with elven writing had come from here—there had to be something worthwhile. "This place makes me nervous."

The structure around them was certainly… severe. "I don't think this was just someone's home. A temple, perhaps? Or a ritual site?"

"I… don't know," Tamlen said, increasingly uneasy. "I have this odd sensation that we've… disturbed something. Like we just walked into a dragon's lair."

"We should look around. The humans said they saw some kind of demon, it could still be about. Besides, Keeper Marathari will want to see this place—we should make sure any dangers are out of the way so she can study in peace, don't you say?"

The air felt stale with something more than just age. Perhaps Tamlen was on to something about something being unusual about the place. She took her bow in hand—just in case—and took the lead down the passageway.

"You're right," he said with renewed confidence. "We Dalish fear nothing!"

The organic nature of their surroundings began to give way to more and more of the structure until they came to the first proper room of the ruins. Rosaya cast about warily—ruins such as this were infamous for traps. Though she saw none, she spotted something else worthy of concern.

"Tamlen… how big does a spider have to be in order to make a web that size?"

Tamlen shuddered, eyeing the silvery threads stretched out across the space. "Either it's thousands of regular-sized spiders, or it's one person-sized spider. I'm honestly not sure which is worse."

"'We Dalish fear nothing,' eh? _Nuva mar'av aria ma_, indeed," she said, exchanging her bow for her knife.

Tamlen rolled his eyes. "Oh don't give me that. Besides, the only trap around here is those webs."

She readied it at the webs blocking their access to the door. "We don't have any food to leave out for them, and once I touch the webs they'll be on us like flies. You ready, lethallen?"

Tamlen already had an arrow ready on the string. "Ready."

Rosaya cut through the webs, brushing them aside so they could move through. Not but moments later, she heard the chittering, scraping sound of spiders advancing towards their position.

She sheathed her dagger and drew her bow as the first of them rounded the corner, crawling along the ceiling. Were it to stand as high as it's many legs would allow, it would probably be taller than her—just the thought set her hairs on end. She aimed upwards to strike it down, but Tamlen beat her to it, losing an arrow and killing as yet even more headed towards their location.

Rosaya backed up a step, firing at the one advancing towards them the quickest. She hit it, but the spider only stumbled briefly before resuming it's charge at them.

Guess she was going to need bigger arrows—or just more of them.

She loaded two arrows on the string this time, sinking both into the spider's face as it came dangerously close to her. It stilled and fell to the side.

Tamlen struck down the last spider—at least the last spider for now. She had no doubt there would be more the deeper they went.

"So what do you think all this is?" she asked Tamlen a moment after they'd had a chance to breathe.

"I'm not sure. It looks like a very old human place. Why would they build this? And why would elven artifacts be here? Maybe some of our ancestors lived here, in caves like the dwarves," he mused, collecting his arrows. "I'll stick to roaming the land, myself."

"You're at least right about the architecture looking more human than elven," she said, brushing stray webs out of her hair. "It could be that the elves who lived here were slaves."

"I suppose," Tamlen said, advancing first down the next hall. "The keeper said it took a long time for slavery to erase our ancestor's history. Maybe whoever lived here still wrote and spoke elven."

"Maybe. I just hope they left behind something more than a little trinket—maybe a book of recipes, a genealogy record, or something of that sort that the clan can use."

"Me too," he said, reaching for the door. Rosaya noticed a wire running underneath it, and she rushed to catch up to him. "Wouldn't it be cool if we found schematics for ancient weaponry and armor? It think that—hey!" He stopped short as Rosaya took hold of his collar and pulled him back. "What was that for?"

Rosaya gave him a long look and pointed to the wire. "If you're not going to watch where you're going, maybe I should go first," she said with a sigh. "You'd think a hunter would be more aware of his surroundings."

Tamlen smiled, a rare mischief in his eyes. "Oh, but how could I pay attention to what's around me when my company is so fascinating?"

"Fascinating, hm?" She said as she knelt on the ground to inspect the wiring. It was loaded to the door, but she couldn't see what it activated—something on the other side of the door, obviously, but she couldn't be sure what the trigger would activate.

"I could use other words. But I'll save those for when we're back at camp."

Rosaya sighed, but tried not to let her disappointment show. She was still and apprentice, and thus still a child to the clan—she understood why Tamlen kept a certain distance out of respect for the clan's traditions, but Creators, if it wasn't the most frustrating thing sometimes…

She motioned for Tamlen to back up a step, and once he did, she slipped her dagger under the door to cut the wire. A dull clank sounded from beyond as the trap activated followed shortly by heavy impacts against the door. Spearheads poked through this side of the rotting wood.

Rosaya stood, glancing from the impaled door to Tamlen, who gulped. "Yeah, maybe you should go first after all."

"Glad to see we're of one mind on this." She pushed the door open, bow already ready with an arrow.

Webs covered the floor like fresh-fallen snow. One spider was already dead on the ground, killed by the spears from the trap. More remained, turning towards them and hissing and chittering as they advanced. Rosaya fired her arrows, Tamlen doing the same as he moved to stand at her side.

The largest of them reared on its hind legs, spitting a large glob of web fluid at them. Rosaya ducked to avoid it, shooting an arrow into it's underside as she did so.

Rosaya turned to the room as Tameln killed the final spider. Given the rotten shelves lining the walls it seemed like it was once a study space—but no books or tomes remained, destroyed by either time and the elements or by the spiders taking over the space.

The other hallway was in remarkably better condition than the other ones they'd seen—apparently the spiders didn't like coming this way as much.

Tamlen paused, looking at a structure in a small alcove. "I can't believe this. You recognize that statue, don't you?"

"It's… Falon'din, right? Or is it Dirthamen?"

"If I'd to guess, I'd say Falon'din. Back when our people lived in Arlathan, statues like these honored the Creators. When the shems enslaved us, much of that lore was lost." "I don't get it… this looks like human architecture… with a statue of our people. Can these ruins date back to the time of Arlathan?"

"I doubt there's any way we could ever really know for sure. So much of our history has been lost—who can really say?" she said, reaching out and touching the statue's outstretched arm with a reverent hand, brushing away some of the dust with her fingers.

"Still, I'd have never even imagined ancient elves could have lived here with humans. The Keeper will definitely be interested in the implications of this. I remember seeing a statue like this in one of those old books she never lets anyone touch."

"Could this place be some kind of tomb, then? Falon'din's statue is here, after all." The idea didn't sit well with her. If they were trespassing on ancient graves… nothing good would come of that.

Tamlen scoffed, shaking his head at the notion. "An elven tomb built by shems? I doubt it." He looked around them, thoughtful. "It's said that the old ones never truly died; they just went somewhere and… slept forever. And that this god would come guide their spirits away. But he wasn't evil, not like Fen'harel—the Great Wolf. It doesn't seem right that a place so wrong… would he his."

"This place has been sitting here for hundreds of years, at the very least. Whatever it was, time has clearly changed it." She turned around, facing in the same direction as the statue.

An ornate door stood adjacent towards them, the inlay on the frame and handle more intricate than the rest of the structure. She glanced back to the statue. It almost looked like it was… watching the door. On guard, wary even.

More concerning than that was the number of skeletons surrounding the door.

Rosaya knelt beside one of the skeletons. It was old enough that all the tissue had long rotted away, leaving the bones pristine white. They held rusted swords and rotted armor clung to their frames, so destroyed by time and the elements she couldn't discern if it was elven or human in design any more than she could discern what it was that had killed them.

"Could it have been the spiders?" Tamlen said, voicing a reply to her unasked question.

"If it was the spiders, there wouldn't be any bones left."

"Ah. Right."

Rosaya sighed, standing and reaching for the door. Hopefully whatever killed them wasn't still around—the corpses seemed as old as the ruins themselves.

Tamlen cried out as her fingers brushed against the handle and she whirled around, bow in hand. Tamlen stumbled backwards, hand pressed to a wound on his leg that began pouring blood. One of the skeletons was beginning to stand, sword dripping with red.

Rosaya fired, arrow striking it through the skull. It fell, but more corpses rose.

More corpses rose. Rosaya gripped her bow with two hands, swinging it and striking the nearest skeleton and knocking it's head off. It stumbled around blindly for a moment before collapsing on the floor.

She turned to Tamlen His face was pained, but he had his dagger in hand and was fending off one of the skeletons. She readied two arrows on the string and fired, striking down the one pressuring Tamlen and one advancing towards her.

In the aftermath of the fight Rosaya paused only long enough to make sure none of the bodies would rise again before rushing to Tamlen's aid. He leaned against the wall to support himself. The wound on his leg wasn't severe, but enough to hinder his mobility.

"The Keeper's going to be pissed, isn't she?" Rosaya said with a sigh, taking some bandages out of her pack.

Tamlen had other concerns on his mind, still watching the fallen bodies with alarm. "Those were walking corpses! Is this place haunted?"

Rosaya finished applying the bandage and helped him to stand upright. "Evidently. But how could walking corpses be here?"

"Harhen Paivel once said that in places where many people died, it can become sethaneran—a land of waking dreams. The Veil becomes weak and spirits slip into our world. Then they possess corpses and walk around."

"Do you think… many elves died here, then?" She looked at the bodies again. Whatever happened in this place was no happy tale—that was becoming increasingly obvious.

"There's certainly enough bones… maybe nobody was left to bury them. This place reeks of something… wrong. Can't you feel it?" His nervous energy was building, though he seemed to be making efforts to keep it from showing. Either he was paranoid, or he was picking up on something she was missing.

"You said this place was setheneran—maybe you're just noticing the weakness of the Veil," she said, trying to reassure him.

Tamlen sighed. "Let's just press on."

"You're hurt—are you sure you don't want to head back to camp? I'm sure we've done enough just by finding this place."

Tamlen shook his head. "No. We've already come this far, and besides—I want to know how our people were involved with this."

"Alright, if you're sure. Can you walk by yourself?" she asked.

"If I say no, will you carry me?" Tamlen asked, smiling despite the circumstances.

"No, I will not." Rosaya flicked his nose playfully.

"Ah, so cruel," Tamlen chuckled. "I'll manage alright. Now, after you, lethallan."

She wanted to believe the worst of it had passed, but they weren't given more than a moment to breathe.

Rosaya opened the door. She was no more than two steps into the room when a loud roar shook the space. She drew her bow and turned, but all she saw was a blur of teeth and claws before she ducked and rolled away, narrowly avoiding having her face torn off.

Tamlen had his bow out as well and got off a shot into the creature's flank. All that seemed to do was make it angry. The bearlike monstrosity whirled towards him, all teeth and rage. Rosaya sprang to her feet releasing two arrows in rapid succession, drawing the thing's attention away from the injured Tamlen and towards herself.

They repeated this cycle briefly, the two of them alternating one drawing it's attention with quick shots to allow the other to retreat back a distance and then switching off.

But the beast quickly had enough of that. It roared and charged blindly. Rosaya tried to move out of the way, but she was less fortunate this time and it lashed out with a claw, sending her flying across the room and into an object at the center.

Her body ached, a dull hum echoed briefly throughout the room, but she ignored both and stood and moved across the room away from the beast.

She positioned herself atop a fallen pillar and fired, sinking an arrow through it's eye and hitting it's brain. It let out a final dull cry and slumped to the floor.

"By the Creators, what was that thing?"

"A bear. At least, I think it used to be." Rosaya eyed the beast warily. The bony protrusions sticking out from its hide were obviously unnatural, and where blood would normally flow, dark ichor pooled instead. Was it some sort of freak of nature, or a magical mutation?

"Well, whatever it was, it's dead now. I guess that's all that matters," Tamlen said, turning to her with concern. "Are you alright? It threw you pretty hard."

Rosaya rubbed her side absently. It was definitely going to bruise, but more than that she couldn't shake the tingling sensation from her skin. "It's nothing I won't recover from," she said, shaking the feeling away.

She turned to the room. She'd been so focused on the fight she hadn't really noticed what the bear had even thrown her against, other than it had been something large and cold in the middle of the room.

What she saw took her breath away.

Dim moonlight streamed in through a crack in the vaulted ceiling, perfectly illuminating the circular dias in the center of the room. A mirror of silver glass stood in the center, towering nearly as high as the ceiling itself.

"It's beautiful, isn't it? I wonder what that writing says," Tamlen said, eyes filled with wonder.

"Keeper Marathari might be able to translate it for us," Rosaya mused. Whatever it was, she would bet her ears it was magical.

"Maybe, but she's not here to help us. Odd, that it isn't broken like everything else, especially with that bear lumbering around in here."

Rosaya shook her head, drawing just a step closer to the mirror. "The bear threw me into it; the class should have shattered. But it's not just undamaged—there's not a single speck of dust on it. It looks brand new," she said. As she and Tamlen moved closer, she noticed something else amiss. "Whatever our ancestors used it for, I don't think it was for vanity. It's not reflecting anything—not the room, not us."

"Maybe the writing around it will tell us what it—hey, did you see that?" Tamlen closed the distance between them and the glass. "I think something moved inside the mirror."

"Inside the mirror?" Rosaya said. She reached out to push him aside so she could stand next to him, but he stayed fixed in place. "Move, let me see."

"Hold on, I just want to see what it is," Tamlen said, something oddly distant about his voice. "Don't you see it? There it is again!"

"I can't see it—you're in the way. Back up so I can see."

"Can you feel that? I think it knows we're here. I just need to take a closer look…" Tamlen leaned forward and traced a hand against the glass. Rosaya gasped—the surface rippled like water under his touch. "It's… showing me places. I can see… some kind of city… underground?" His tone quickly turned from wonder to fear. "And… there's a great blackness…"

"Tamlen…" Rosaya said, placing a hand on his shoulder, "Are you alright?"

He went rigid under her touch. "It… it saw me! Help! I can't look away!"

"Tamlen!"

Pain seared through her body as a force lashed out from the mirror, throwing her across the room. His vision clouded as she tried to right herself, the room spinning around her as nausea build inside her. Pressure drummed in her skull, beating a rhythm against her brain.

Through the intensity of it she could hear faintly… music like a song, and… screaming? Was it Tamlen? Or her? Or even something else?

She reached out—through her hazy vision she could just barely see the silhouette of Tamlen against the mirror. The light became blinding until it consumed her. Just when she thought the light and force of the mirror would consume her, it vanished.

Darkness fell, and she slipped away.

Aothor could barely tell one tree from the other, let alone tell where they were going or where they'd come from. They'd been making their way through the forest for quite some time, yet seemed no closer to their intended destination.

He sincerely hoped Duncan knew what he was doing.

He couldn't quite fathom why they were even out here—one moment Duncan seemed intent on leaving the matter be, but all it took was a few words from Edmund to change his mind. For all the mage seemed reluctant to tell them anything, he seemed to have at least convinced Duncan of a few things. For now all the rest of them could do was trust in their Commander's judgement.

Edmund kept clear of the rest of them as they moved through the woods, unwilling to look at any of them directly. Aothor huffed but turned away from the mage—it probably wouldn't be such a big deal if he would simply tell them. But he was a mage, and with mages everything had to be an interesting little mystery, apparently.

Darkness closed over the forest, light fading such that the human members of their group would have difficult seeing.

"We should stop here for the night," Duncan announced as they came across a decently even and clear patch of earth. "Finding a clan of Dalish in the night is nearly as impossible as it is foolhardy—we will resume our search in the morning."

"Duncan, I don't mean to question your decisions—"

"But you are going to anyways," Duncan said, turning to Cousland. "Speak freely."

"Alright. What in the Maker's name are we doing out here?" Cousland asked as Edmund and Liri started clearing a space for camp.

"The Dalish are resourceful and skilled. To happen so closely upon a clan is not an opportunity we cannot pass up. More than that, I am acquainted with the Keeper of this clan. I believe she will allow us a recruit."

"It's just… I thought we were on a time crunch to get to Ostagar," Cousland said.

Duncan leveled a steady look at him. "I know you are eager to bring news of Highever's fate to the king, and to find your brother. Rest assured that if we do not find the Dalish by late morning, we will be back on the road. I expect this will be a minor delay at best," Duncan said, settling himself and setting out his bedroll.

That seemed to be enough to satisfy the young noble, because he began to do the same. Isefel began arranging a fire, and when she reached into her pack for flint to light it with Edmund held out a hand to stop her.

"I got it. You might, uh, want to back up a step," He said. Isefel complied and the mage directed his staff towards the fire. A small combustion went off inside the stack of wood and a beat later a healthy burn was working away at the wood. The autumn air had a sharp chill tonight—the fire would be a welcome warmth.

"Aothor and Liri, you have first watch," Duncan said, gesturing to them. "Edmund and Cousland will be next. Isefel and I shall take the final watch, and then we will be off."

"Yes sir," Aothor said. Liri wouldn't have been his first pick to spend watch with—but somehow he believed Duncan was aware of just such a fact.

For a time all was silent. One after another he heard the steady, slow breaths of their companions as each was taken by sleep.

The night sky was clear of clouds for the first time since they surfaced. Aothor had heard about the moons, seen depictions of it them imported paintings, but seeing Satina and Luna hang in the sky together was still mind-boggling. It didn't seem real.

"Have you ever seen the grave caverns below Orzammar?"

"_Casteless aren't allowed to be buried in the city's tombs, let alone visit the graves,"_ she said, only barely looking over at him.

"I know that, but I also don't think you're the type of person to let that stop you."

She huffed, blowing a stray hair out of her face. _"Sure, fine, I have. What's that got to do with anything?"_

Aothor pointed upwards, to the twinkling stars dancing beyond the branches and dying leaves. "In the oldest and deepest caves, there's a rare fungus that grows around the tombs. Nothing special about it at first glance, but during certain times of year it releases glowing spores. The stars aren't as beautiful, but they're similar. A reminder of home."

"_Didn't know you had a thing for plants."_

Aothor shrugged. "After the first couple times you get poisoned, you learn to pay attention to the ones you can use as antidotes."

"Hm," Liri stared upwards for a while, a far-away look in her eyes, before returning to the bug crawling along the stick in her hand.

Aothor couldn't fathom what her issue might be with him. They'd barely held a full conversation in all the time they'd been travelling together, mostly at her own unwillingness. Occasionally she'd lighten up, seem like she was letting down a wall, only to return to her cold attitude towards him moments later.

It clearly wasn't that Liri was a naturally prickly or unfriendly person—she got on amicably with Edmund and Duncan, and despite her lack of ability to communicate with Cousland or Isefel independently she was fairly friendly with them as well. It hadn't been that long that they'd known one another; it had only been a week since his recruitment.

Aothor stilled. It had only been a week. It felt like an eternity, and yet like no time had passed at all. So much had happened, yet barely any time had passed.

Even though it hadn't been terribly long, Aothor decided he was done with this. They would be working together for the foreseeable future, and he was sick of walking on loose sand whenever he spoke to her.

"Have I done something to offend you?" he asked quietly. Liri gave him a confused look and only shook her head. "Then why do you act like you hate me?"

"_It's not really… you, that I hate."_

"That doesn't clarify anything," Aothor said with a sigh. "Look, we don't have be friends, but I would appreciate it if you could tell me what the problem is."

Liri was still, and for a few moments he didn't think she would answer him at all.

"_I thought I was getting free of Orzammar—at least free of the parts of it I hated." _She said,_ "And then you showed up,"_ Liri said. _"An Aeducan. A living, breathing, walking manifestation of all the nobility, of all the rules and systems that held me down my whole life. Suddenly I hadn't escaped at all." _

It made sense, he supposed. She was casteless. Of course she had resentment towards Orzammar and it's powerholders. Still… "But I'm not an Aeducan anymore. Orzammar has rejected me—I suppose that technically makes me casteless, as well."

Liri shook her head. _"It's not the same. You never had to live like a casteless. It's hard to be around you when I've spent so much of my life hating people like you. And I really wanted to hate you. I wanted you to be a greedy, self-important piece of noble shit like I always figured you rich people were. But you're not. And somehow that made me even more upset."_

So… she was mad that he _wasn't_ an entitled asshat? "Why?"

"_The fact that you're actually kind of a decent person means that I was wrong. Ever meet someone who liked being wrong?"_ She said, rolling a small rock idly under her foot.

"'Kind of a decent person,' eh? Careful with your flattery—I may blush."

"_Oh calm down—I still think you've got a bit of a stick up your ass," _she said, though there was a new softness in her expression now.

Aothor quirked a brow. There were several comments he could make in response to that, but he thought better of it and kept his thoughts to himself, as he suspected Liri may stab him if he said them aloud. He didn't want that, especially not when it seemed like they were finally making progress.

"_Thought you nobles hated casteless. So why do you even care what I think?"_

"I care what you think because we're a part of the same team now, because we need to be able to rely on each other. Besides, I'm no more noble than you are casteless anymore, right? Because we're Grey sodding Wardens," he said.

Liri smiled slightly as he parroted her own words back to her._"I guess you have me there,"_ she admitted. _"Fine. If you can less of a stickler about stupid rules, I'll be… nicer."_

"There are rules for a reason," he said, unable to keep away a smile, "But a life in politics has taught me that there are plenty of ways they can be bent."

Liri chuckled. _"I suppose that'll have to do. You're not that bad after all, maybe."_

"Such high praise! Be still, my beating heart,"

"_Careful, or I'll take it back,"_ She picked up a small stick from the ground and threw it at him. Aothor flinched but it didn't hit him. He looked back at her and saw she now held two, a mischievous glint in her eyes. _"Two for flinching."_ She threw the first one, getting it stuck in his beard, but he caught the second one and tossed it in the fire.

"Am I going to regret being on speaking terms with you?" He asked playfully, pulling the other one out of his beard.

Liri grinned. _"Probably. Most people do eventually. Though, I'm not really on 'speaking' terms with anyone."_

Aothor couldn't help but laugh a bit. "On that thought, we should try to teach Cousland and Isefel at least the basics of hand-speech. The communication thing could become an issue in the future. Duncan, Edmund, and I won't always be around to translate.

"_I guess. I'll admit it can be frustrating, but I'm honestly used to it."_

"You shouldn't have to be," Aothor said, shaking his head. "We should make sure you can to speak to them on your own if you need to. I'll see about getting Edmund to help me teach Isefel and Cousland," he said, then paused, considering. "Actually, maybe I'll have Duncan help. I don't think putting Edmund and Cousland in a situation where they need to converse for an extended period of time is going to help matters there."

Liri shrugged. _"Who knows? It worked for us. Kind of."_

Aothor cast a considering eye on the sleeping humans in question. Edmund sat upright against a tree, almost purposefully uncomfortable. Cousland rested on the opposite side of the campfire, resting against the large form of his dog. "Maybe. But those two need to form peace on their own terms. Cousland's stubborn and stuck on prodding the mage, and Edmund isn't making it any easier for Cousland to trust him. Or making it any easier for the rest of us to trust him, for that matter."

"_What, you don't like him either?" _She asked, brow raised.

"It's not that. He seems like a decent man, but he's…" Aothor trailed off briefly, searching for the right way to phrase his thoughts. "A bit frustrating, and highly unusual."

"_Yeah. I mean, he's a mage. I'm pretty sure weird is their default."_

"Ordinarily I might agree. But ever since Highever he's been even more so, and then there's what happened in Denerim. Don't you at all find it strange how he knew about the attack? How he knew Vaughan kidnapping Isefel before it'd even happened? Isn't that odd to you?"

"_Nope, not really,"_ she said with a shrug. _"I don't care how he knows. He's been right so far, and we've been able to save a lot of people because of it. The details of how don't seem all that relevant, if you ask me."_

"So you trust him? Even though he hasn't told us what's actually going on?" Aothor asked. Edmund promised them he would explain himself—but he seemed to be intentionally putting off the conversation.

Liri shook her head. _"I don't trust anyone. It's safer that way, to assume that at any moment anyone you know could sell you out and betray you. Life's less surprising that way," _Liri said. He couldn't keep the thought of Bhelen from rising in his mind._ "But I'm also not about to look a gift bronco in the mouth. As long as Edmund keeps finding ways to help people, I'm not going to bother him about something that isn't my business."_

Aothor frowned. "It is kind of our business, if you ask me. If we're risking our lives going along with his plans, I think we deserve to know what's really going on." He didn't like being kept in the dark. He wasn't the only one—Cousland's frustrations likely stemmed from the same issue. He was just more vocal about it than Aothor was.

"_Look, you and the others can bug him about it to your heart's content. But I don't really care, so don't drag me into it,"_ she said with a shrug. Liri continued signing, but he didn't see what she was saying.

Aothor's eyes fell on Duncan's sleeping form. The older human was sweating profusely, and though he was still his face twisted in pain. Unable to shake away the concern, Aothor stood and placed a hand on Duncan's shoulder to wake him up.

He'd no more than touched Duncan than the man jolted awake crying out loud enough to wake the other sleeping companions. His hands were on his weapons, a wild sort of look in his eye. After a moment he seemed to realize where he was, but the old Warden did not relax.

"What's going on?" Isefel asked, rubbing the sleep from her eye.

Duncan turned to them, face pale. "The Archdemon. It is near."


	14. A Blighted Mirror (Part 2)

His mind touched the Fade, but just… barely. Like skimming your toes on the surface of a cold pool on a hot day. It was tempting to jump in, but he knew the icy shock that would await him.

He was so tired… but he couldn't let himself rest deeply. It wasn't safe. He clung desperately to the safety of a semi-wakeful state.

His grip slipped, and like a wave the dream took him under.

Every night he spent with Pride he'd been in the same pocket of vague grey nothingness. Now, he stood in a forest—he could have even mistaken himself for being awake if it weren't for the fact that multiple trees were floating, suspended in the air like balloons.

So this was the Fade uninfluenced—he couldn't exactly call it an improvement, but at least it was interesting. He couldn't help but miss the days when his dreams were nothing but random nonsense, like dreaming of being late to classes or playing fetch with a dog that would come back as a different breed every time he threw the ball. Those were fun dreams.

He began moving through the trees, though somehow it didn't seem like he was making any actual progress. Pride was nowhere to be found and somehow he couldn't bring himself to be happy about it. If the demon was destroyed, he was simultaneously down an enemy and a teacher, causing as many problems as it solved. If it was lingering somewhere else… it could come back, and it would most certainly come back angry.

He couldn't help but wonder… free of Pride's domain, would he be able to influence the space around him? Somniari could do that. He wasn't sure how much his dreaming abilities differed from those of a standard mage—but then again, he wasn't actually a mage at all. There were bound to be some rules he could break, like whatever he'd done back a few nights ago to fight off Pride.

Maybe he could make this space his own.

He tried to concentrate on something familiar, something he knew intimately—the living room of his childhood home. The beige paint on the walls, the ugly old green couches with patches covered up by decorative pillows… the almost-matching-but-not-quite armchair his grandfather always sat in… the old TV and the remote he and his sister fought over as kids, and the coffee stains in the carpet that never quite came out no matter how they tried to clean it.

The scene crystalized in his mind. He refocused on his surroundings—he was still in the forest. Nothing had changed.

He sat down on an old rotted stump, shoulders slumped. He didn't know why he was so disappointed—Dreamers abilities were so rare, and sure he was an oddity, but why would he have that power?

He just wanted something, _anything_ of Earth. Of home. But apparently, he couldn't even have his dreams. He kept a tally in his journal marking for every day in Thedas. Though he didn't have access to it, he didn't need to reference it in order to know off the top of his head it had been fifty-six days. Almost two months spent wearing a body that wasn't his in a world where he didn't belong. Nearly sixty days since anyone had called him by his actual name.

He'd never been gone from home for so long all at once before. He'd commuted to college, gotten an apartment with some friends in his same hometown, worked close to home—hell, the longest he'd been away was the occasional week of summer camp growing up, and that was just an hour way, not an entirely different world.

He'd thought he'd been dealing with everything pretty well, all things considered. It didn't hurt so much if he kept himself busy and focused on other things. But with the way the others—Cousland especially— treated him as an other without even knowing the truth about him…

He supposed he could understand where Cousland's attitude was coming from, to a point. He'd just lost his home and his parents and been swept up into a world-saving quest without a moment to grieve. Ironically, they were in a similar situation, even if the specifics differed wildly. One would think it would bring them closer together. One would be wrong.

For the millionth time, he wished that it was all a hallucination, and that he would wake up back home.

He held his hands in his hands, trying to re-focus himself. _You don't pick the cards; you only play with the ones in your hand until life shuffles a different set. _His grandfather's favorite saying. Somehow he always imagined the application of said wisdom was something in the form of finances or relationships, not… whatever all this shit was.

Whatever the reason, however it happened, these were his cards to use.

He stood back up, walking through the never-ending woods in an effort to distract himself. He was still in the Fade—even though he was relatively alone, he was far from safe. He let his aura flare out from his body, placing his senses on alert.

He was immediately aware of a presence following behind him. He spun on his heel, flames conjured in his hands. He couldn't detect anything with his eyes at first, but as he continued to back away a small form emerged from behind an old gnarled tree.

It turned to him, cowl shifting enough to discern a face—or where a face should have been. A pale mask hung suspended by shadow, eerie and vacant of expression or detail. He backed up a step. It advanced in equal measure.

"Who… what are you?"

Though there was no visible mouth, the thing still spoke. "I am small, I am just watching." Its voice was soft and barely audible over the rushing of wind in the dreamscape trees.

"I don't know if anyone's ever told you this before, but it's rude to try and sneak up on people." He said, unable to keep the edge out of his voice.

Though it was no larger than the size of a ten-year old child, still a sinister aura radiated from it.

He narrowed his eyes, moving a bit closer and taking in its form. "You're a… Despair demon?" There was a similarity, for sure. A hunched form wearing a tattered hood and cloak… it matched the model from Inquisition. But the mask… that mask was different.

Pride, and now this. Was it too much to ask to just meet a nice spirit in the Fade? Just one? He could do with some Joy right about now, or dare he even hope for Hope?

"I am born of Despair," it said, retreating slightly from him. "I am… the pain of separation. The ache of a distance which cannot be crossed. I am lonely. I am… Isolation."

He quirked a brow. How fitting. "I guess I'm able to see you now that Pride's gone, hm?" he asked, extinguishing the fire in his hands. If it wasn't going to attack him, he could at least extend the same courtesy.

"Yes. Though Pride locked you away, still traces of you leaked out. Your pain… so specific, so enticing… I risked venturing near despite my fear of Pride—it destroyed all who got too close. It has been long since I felt one who echoed of me so strongly."

"What do you want from me?" Edmund asked. He'd already fought off one possession that week. He'd rather not make it two.

It's head tilted to the side, and though it lacked eyes he could feel it's focus singling in on him. "You are lonely… you fear you are cast aside. You long for connection… yet you deny yourself of it." It paced in front of him briefly, but neither moved closer nor away. "So you distance. Dethatch, and derail in desperation. Defending yourself but deepening the divide. How… delicious."

Something pulled at his gut, the ache bubbling inside him he constantly ignored. He shook his head, pushing it all back down. Isolation was literally the embodiment of loneliness. Of course it was drawing this out of him—probably even intentionally. Depending on how long it had been shadowing him, his homesickness likely emerged because of it as well.

The Fade was not a safe place to let himself hurt. Here of all places, he had to be strong.

"The Pride demon that held me—do you know what happened to it?" He asked, changing the track of conversation and daring a step closer. It moved back, maintaining the same distance of space. He frowned—it wouldn't come closer to him, but neither would it leave. Lingering at a fixed distance.

"I watched. I saw what it did, then what you did to it. You shook the Fade," it said, wringing it's hands as a strange nervousness came over it. "Others saw as well. We all waited beyond Pride's walls, eager for them to fall… but when we bore witness, most fled for fear they would share Pride's fate."

"And… what did I do to it?"

"You did to it… what mine do to yours. Do you see? You are a thief, an invader, pillager."

He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh. One would think that after weeks of dealing with Pride he'd be better at piecing together weird spirit-vagueness. "You're saying I stole something from it?"

"A piece, just a piece. You could have taken more. Could have slipped in and taken it whole, merged or mutilated or morphed. Pride knows this. Pride fears this. Pride… is not meant to fear. It is weakened."

Weakened. But not gone. Curious of the demon's behavior, he took several steps back. Isolation pressed forward an equal measure as he retreated but did not advance beyond that amount. He kept moving, and the demon walked at his side from the distance. He noticed that it didn't so much walk as it glided eerily over the forest floor. This thing gave him serious dementor vibes.

He cast a considering eye towards it—both Pride and the statue of Zenovia in the repository had noticed his… different nature. "What can you tell about me? About where I fit?"

Isolation made a motion that might have been a shrug. "Only that you do not, that your pain is born of it, that you could steal from Pride because of this. Your nature is similar to ours… close enough to be mistaken for spirit… yet still set apart. We know the effects mages have on us, the effects we have upon them… but you are unknown. Not a mage. Not a spirit. Not a demon. Abomination? Maybe. Maybe more, maybe less."

"That's… helpful. I think." It was little more than what he'd managed to glean from his other sources, but it didn't hurt to get a demonic peer-review session going.

He glanced back towards the demon. Still Isolation shadowed him six feet back. "Why are you following me? Are you going to try and possess me?" he asked, "You saw that didn't work out so well for Pride when it tried."

"I have no need. So long as your pain endures, I feed." It held up a glass bottle in long, bone-thin fingers—where had it gotten that? "You bury and bottle, repress and refuse. The pressure builds. One day, the bottle will break…" Focus never leaving his face, it raised the bottle and crushed it. The glass flew into the air but dispersed into nothing. "… and on that day I shall feast as a vulture on what remains."

"So you're a scavenger, not a fighter," Edmund mused. "All I have to do is not break, then."

"Everyone breaks, eventually," it said, the slightest trace of a laugh in its voice.

He turned back to face the demon. Maybe he should try and get rid of it now—it would just become a problem later.

He stilled, stopping short before he even began to draw on his power. The trees around them began to wither. He watched as the leaves blackened and fell, crumpling into dust before they hit the ground. The air was quiet and… wrong.

"This… this isn't you, is it?"

Isolation shuddered, shrinking in place. "The corruption bleeds over."

Dread built up inside him. This couldn't be good. Something stirred at his physically form.

Edmund woke up.

He could see the dragon stirring deep beneath the earth, the air around it clouded with the poison of the Blight. It sang out, and the music was beautiful—and also terrible. A melody so enticing and toxic he can't help but listen, though the sound of it nearly deafened him. A horde of darkspawn screamed in time with the music.

The dragon's cry echoed through the deep and shook within his bones, pounding, driving… beckoning… _calling_…

But not for him.

The pull was so strong it tugged at him as well by nature of proximity… but the Archdemon… what… or who… was it singing for?

The scene shifted. Duncan saw a forest shrouded by night, and deep within it a cave. And from that cave… the dragon emerged, and the song in is mind ground to a numbing static.

The Archdemon unfurled its wings and roared in triumph, and the taint within Duncan pounded so terribly he thought his head would burst.

And then he was awake, sweating and shaking. He glanced down at his hands—he was holding his blades. One of his recruits spoke to him, but he could not focus on their words. He stared into the trees—he could hear the Archdemon still, even after waking, it's song resounding from deeper into the woods.

"The Archdemon. It is near." It should be impossible, but he could not deny what his sense were telling him.

"What do you mean? I thought it was supposed to be in the Deep Roads," Isefel said, blinking sleep from her eyes as she stood.

Duncan shook his head, steeling himself. "Apparently not." He glanced over his recruits. Though he had the five of them, it was down to him to kill the dragon. The situation could not be worse, but neither could he allow this chance to pass.

"_Duncan… are you sure?"_ Liri asked.

"We Grey Wardens can sense the taint," Duncan explained, "The mark of an Archdemon is unmistakable."

"There's something in the air…" Edmund said, stifling a yawn. "It just feels wrong. It's too still, stagnant. Kind of like what the Deep Roads felt like, but… different. Can't the rest of you feel it?"

"Well, what are we still waiting around here for?" Aothor said, hefting his weapons. "What's the call, Commander?"

Duncan turned to the forest and began to move, his recruits falling in step behind him. "If we are as close as I feel we are, the dragon should be able to sense me as I can sense it, but it cannot detect the five of you. I will draw it's attention. The rest of you stay out of sight until you have an opportunity. Do what you can to weaken it, but under no circumstances are any of you to attempt to kill it. Understood?"

"Are you all quite mad?" Cousland said, gaping at the rest of them. "We're talking about a _dragon_."

"Not just any dragon," Edmund said, "A super ancient, evil, magical dragon."

Cousland pinched the bridge of his nose in something like an effort to keep himself calm. "Yes. Exactly. And there are six of us. I'm just saying it seems foolhardy to rush in. Maker, the king is putting together an entire army to deal with this thing, and we're just going to try and deal with it ourselves? Besides, if what you've been saying is right, the Archdemon probably isn't alone. If it's really here, it's probably got at least a small army's worth of darkspawn with it. We're out of our depth here."

Duncan sighed. Cousland had a point, his concerns practical, but they could not pass up on this chance. "If the Archdemon has surfaced, that means it intends to begin assaulting the land. If we defeat it now, thousands, perhaps even millions of lives will be saved."

Edmund doused the campfire with a wave of his staff and Duncan turned, heading into the forest, the others following after somewhat hesitantly. The night was growing long—sunrise was but a few hours off. Though none of them had a truly proper chance to rest, nerves kept them all sharp and wits aware.

The song began to quiet. Duncan stilled, straining his senses. He wasn't mistaken—it was fading. Why—how could it be fading? It had been so clear, so _sharp_. What in the Maker's name was happening?

Edmund moved to stand at his side, concern written across his face. "Duncan… are you okay? You look pale."

"I can feel it still… but it's disappearing," he said, moving again at double the pace.

"What, like it's flying away?" Isefel asked from the rear of the group.

"No, I would be able to tell where it's going if it was leaving. It's just vanishing." It wasn't like he wished to face the dragon so suddenly and with so little preparation. But the fact that something as odd as this was happening built up an anxiousness in his gut.

The final, distant whispers echoed away into the night as Duncan found the very cave from his dreams.

Duncan cast about wildly. No dragon, not even the faintest trace of its presence whether by his senses or by the forest around them. Movement from within the cave caused all of them to raise their weapons at the ready.

From the brush around the entrance, dragging herself through the dirt, emerged a young elven woman.

The taint radiated from her like a beacon.

She'd no more than dragged herself past the bushes when she collapsed, face fully into the earth. Her clothing was of obviously Dalish make. Perhaps her clan was nearby.

Cousland raised a brow incredulously, lowering his axe and leaning on it. "_That's_ your Archdemon, hm?"

Duncan ignored the comment; there was something more pressing than lip from the young noble. "Can you hear me?" Duncan bent over, turning her onto her back. Her eyes fluttered open—violet eyes striking his with piercing focus. It was almost like she wasn't even looking at him, but rather through him.

"Shem… _sathan ma halani_…" Her voice was barely a whisper as she spoke, and as the words left her mouth her eyes glazed over and fell closed once again.

"I am… very sorry," He sighed as he cast an eye over her, doing a quick examination. There were no visible wounds, no broken skin. The only way to contract the Blight was by direct internal exposure, yet she bore none of the typical signs. How had she come to be so corrupted?

Duncan lifted the young elven girl into his arms and stood, turning to face his recruits. "She is deeply infected with the Blight. I expect she'll be beyond help within the hours if left unaided."

"I've seen what happens to even the strongest of soldiers who get poisoned by the darkspawn," Aothor said grimly, a shadow crossing over his face. "It's kinder to put them out of their misery before it takes hold."

"Should… should we do that?" Isefel asked uneasily. "If she's going to suffer a slow death, maybe it would be a mercy…" She was pale in the face, obviously uncomfortable with the idea.

Duncan shook his head. "She may yet have a chance. We must find her clan, and quickly."

"She doesn't have any vallaslin," Edmund mused, walking at his side. "I think that means she's still an apprentice, and Dalish don't let their apprentices hunt alone… there has to be at least one other around here. We should search the cave."

"Since when have you been an expert on the Dalish?" Isefel asked.

Edmund shrugged, "I read a lot," he said, eliciting a scoff from Cousland. The mage turned back to Duncan. "We need to check for others."

Duncan glanced back at the cave. Edmund clearly had someone specific in mind. He was tempted to allow a search. The mage had been correct in his accounts, at least so far.

The elven woman in his arms stirred, wheezing as though the was beginning to choke. Her breathing relaxed after a moment, but a trail of blood trickled out of her nose, specks of darkness intermixed with the red. Her veins were visible through her skin, notably more than they should be, especially given the woman's dark complexion.

She might have less time than he thought.

"If we linger here, we will lose her," Duncan said.

"But—"

"We can stay and search if you wish, but doing so will undoubtably steal away what little time she has left, and then her fate will be on your shoulders. Do you truly want that?"

Edmund looked from Rosaya to the cave, conflicted. "I just… I don't want to leave anyone behind."

"We can only save so many, Edmund," he said, turning away from the cave.

Duncan tried to clear his mind. Had he imagined the Archdemon? It had been so real, so intense…

He knew his time was drawing closer. For weeks he'd been feeling the slow corruption of his blood, the pull at his mind. Though he tried to ignore it, there was no doubt that the taint was slowly claiming what parts of him it failed to take in his Joining.

Perhaps the onset of the Calling was affecting his ability to accurately sense darkspawn, or maybe even causing his dreams to blend into his reality.

Only one thing he knew for certain—he was running out of time. The taint would not spare him much longer.

"Commander, the Archdemon…?" Aothor asked, still on guard.

"Something Blighted is clearly nearby, something strong enough to corrupt this young woman and perhaps influence my detection." Duncan looked around. The only corruption he could sense was the overpowering taint in the young woman, and something far more subtle emanating from the depths of the cave.

No way could the Archdemon have fit through the cave entrance, and if something as large as a dragon had been in the area the environment around them would have shown signs. "It appears to be gone, at least for now. Whatever the case this place is clearly dangerous."

They walked in silence for a time through the forest, the only sound from occasional chokes or sounds of struggle from the Dalish girl he carried.

"So, Duncan…" Isefel asked, breaking the silence. "How exactly are we supposed to find the Dalish? There's nothing out here but trees. We could be going in the wrong direction, for all we know."

"The Dalish are experts at concealing their presence in the wild, it is true. But even the best leave some trace of their presence. I've picked up a few tracking skills over the years—if you look closely, you can see occasional signs," he explained. "But truth be told, the best way to find the Dalish is to venture near enough to the camp for their hunters to find you."

The softness of pre-morning light began to illuminate the world around them. Their breath fogged in the chilled air.

Duncan paused, and his recruits halted behind him. They were being watched. The others seemed to sense it as well, their hands drifting to rest on their weapons. Lady growled, letting out a bark that seemed to shake the otherwise still air.

Four Dalish elves emerged from the brush, bows taught.

"Turn back shems, lest you desire death."

"Please, we mean your people no harm," Duncan said, stepping forward slightly.

The elf took in the unconscious form in his arms, face contorting with rage. "What have you done to her, shemlen? Release her before I release my arrow."

"We discovered her in the woods," Duncan said, voice level. "She is sick. Bring me to your Keeper. Unless I speak with Marathari, this girl will be lost before the sun fully breaches the horizon."

"You know of Marethari?" A silence hung between them for a moment, but in the end concern for the dying elf seemed to overpower any suspicion the hunter held towards them. "Very well. I will bring you to our camp—but only you. Your fellows will remain here, under watch of our hunters."

"Excuse me," Edmund said, stepping forward. "I'm a mage—I might be able to help your Keeper with whatever this sickness is."

Duncan raised a brow at Edmund, as did Liri. _"Thought you said you didn't know how to heal?"_

"_I don't," _He said, signing back to keep their conversation private, _"Might be a good chance to learn, though."_

The elf sneered. "One of the human's tower slaves, hm? I don't think the Keeper has any need of your aid. She already has her First."

"Oh, come on Fenarel. Can we really afford to turn away assistance, especially when Mahariel's life is at stake?" said one of the elf's fellows, lowering her bow. "Just take them to Keeper Marethari. We'll make sure the other shem and the durgen'len don't make any trouble."

The members of the camp were only beginning to rouse themselves for the days activities. As they followed the hunter to the largest of the landships at the center of the camp, the rest of the Dalish gawked at them with a mixture of alarm and suspicion. The Dalish were noble and proud people, but understandably slow to trust.

Most seemed content to give them their distance, but one woman in particular rushed up to them once she took them in. 

"Rosaya!" She cried as she approached, concern wild in her eyes. "What have you shems done to her? Fenarel, what is the meaning of this?"

"Calm yourself Ashalle," Fenarel said, "These shems supposedly found her collapsed in the woods. We're bringing her to Marathari. Is the Keeper awake yet?"

Ashalle reached out a shaking hand, resting it on Rosaya's cheek. The girl shuddered, breath shallow. "Yes, she was performing her morning prayers to the Creators. Oh, _ma fenor_… will she be alright?

"I can promise nothing, madam," Duncan said.

"She was in the forest with another of our clan, a hunter named Tamlen. He was not with her?" She asked. She paled when Duncan shook his head, noting in his mind that once again Edmund had been correct. "Creators have mercy. I'll notify the rest of the hunters. We should check the surrounding woods." She turned away, but cast a lingering look back at them. "Let me know the moment there's news of her condition."

Fenarel nodded and continued leading them into the camp. Duncan recognized the wizened form of Marethari knelt before a makeshift shrine before she even turned to face them. When she did, her face shifted through recognition, concern, and determination all in a matter of seconds.

"I'd say it's good to see you, old friend, but it seems there is something more important at hand," she said, drawing near. Not wasting time with questions, she held her hands over Rosaya's form, calling a soft blue light to her fingers. Edmund drew closer, watching intently. "A dark power holds her. How did this come to be?"

"We are uncertain," Duncan said. "But I intend to investigate the matter. I hoped returning your clanmate to you might buy her some time, at least. This is a mage recruit of my order. He has volunteered to aid you in treating her." There would be no curing the elven girl, not with any magic. But working together they might be able to offset the effects enough to give her a chance.

Marethari nodded grimly. "I understand. Assistance will be welcome—whatever curse holds her will be difficult to break. Fenarel, go and fetch Merrill, bring her to me. Both of you, come into the aravel with me."

"I know the situation's serious and all…" Edmund whispered to him as they followed her, "but I won't lie—I'm super excited to be seeing a Dalish aravel in person."

Duncan sighed. "Do not mention the darkspawn or Blight corruption to them just yet—it would be best to allow them to hope. I will discuss the matter with Marethari once we learn if there is anything to be done or not."

The two of them stooped through the low entrance of the aravel. The interior was small but cozy. Duncan placed the elven girl on the Keeper's cot and moved out of the way so the mages could stand by her.

"Oh, da'len…" Marethari muttered, shaking her head as she went through a series of scrolls. "What trouble have you found for yourself…?"

Marethari continued to flip through scrolls. Edmund held up his hands in front of him, mimicking the motion of Marethari's healing spell from earlier, almost like he was practicing.

Moments later the door to the aravel opened again. An elven woman rushed in, short dark hair disheveled and breathing heavy.

"Keeper! Fenarel told me Rosaya's been hurt," she said, the words no more leaving her mouth than she gasped and rushed to Rosaya's side. "What's happened to her?"

"That is something I hope to discover shortly," Marethari said, examining a piece of parchment covered in complex runes and symbols. "Merrill, this is Duncan, an old friend of mine, and this is…"

"Edmund," he said, introducing himself, a renewed excitement in his eyes. "And you must be Merrill, right? Pleasure to meet you."

"Oh. Erm… hello, I suppose?" Merrill faltered, only just now realizing the presence of the two human men in the room and obviously offset by them. "What—?"

"We've no time for questions now, Merrill," Marethari said, urgency in her voice. "All you need to know is that Duncan is a friend to the Dalish and worthy of trust. Edmund, see if you can pinpoint where this sickness is spreading from. We must eliminate the source," Marethari instructed, taking the herbs from Merrill and beginning to pound them with a bowl and pestle.

Tentatively, he spread out his hands over Rosaya's form, a gentle light gathering. It wasn't as bright as Marethari's had been, and golden whereas hers had been blue, and it flickered uneasily. Yet still it flooded the elven girls form, seeming to have some sort of effect.

Edmund frowned. "I don't know if that will work. It's concentrated in her heart, which means that by now it's infected her entire circulatory system. Theoretically, if we could do blood transfusions, it might offset the effects a bit… but we don't really have the proper equipment, and if that's done poorly I'm pretty sure it could kill her surely as the corruption if the antibodies don't match up…" he trailed off in thought. Flames danced across his fingers briefly and Edmund clenched his fists, drawing them back to himself and dousing the flames.

Marethari glanced at the mage quizzically, but Merrill knelt by the cot with an intense focus on her face. "Hm, blood magic is risky, but if there's a chance it could heal her…"

"Perhaps as a last resort." Marethari said grimly, passing the bowl of herbs to Merrill. "I know of an ancient spell of our people that may save her. Our ancestors knew secrets of the healing arts unknown to most in this age."

"Ooh, are these herbs part of the spell?" Merrill asked, eyes shining brightly.

The Keeper shook her head. "No. They are for the two of you, to focus your minds and give you energy. You will both funnel your own magic through me, powering my spell."

The young elven mage was visibly disappointed. "You mean… we won't get to cast it…?"

"The spell is too complex to be taught in a single day, even if we had the luxury of time for a lesson. As it is, with the two of you channeling through me, the power and speed of the spell will be enhanced. We may be able to save her."

Edmund glanced up, meeting Duncan's eye knowingly. Duncan focused on the elven girl resting before them. The taint inside her grew with every passing second. Her only chance for survival would be the Joining, but without these mages she wouldn't live long enough to even attempt it.

"I can see you have this in hand," Duncan said. Edmund and Merrill began ingesting the herbs and Marethari traced magic symbols through the air. "Have you any idea when you will begin to see results?"

"With both of them helping me, and assuming this spell is effective… she should stabilize and show notable improvements in about a day," Marethari said evenly. "You and those you travelled here with are guests of the clan; you may tell this to my people. They may not be comfortable with it, but after your efforts to save our da'len I believe they will at least allow you some space."

"I understand," Duncan said with a nod. "I will get out of your way so you can work in peace."

Duncan stepped out of the aravel. The sun finally crested fully over the horizon, early light streaming through the branches of the forest around the camp.

An entire day to heal. He didn't know if they had that kind of time to spare—but he could not, in good conscience, leave the elven girl to be destroyed by the taint. He sighed and made his way back to the others.

They might as well make themselves comfortable.

Isefel watched the Dalish who guarded them. Just a few days ago she'd have laughed if anyone told her she'd be face-to-face with Dalish elves. Yet, here she was.

For the shape of their ears, there was nothing remotely familiar about them. It was in the way they held themselves, she thought—the strength in their spines was very much unfamiliar for what she expected of her race. Though the pride in their gaze and superiority in their demeanor was very much something she associated with humans.

The mage wasn't with Duncan when he returned to the rest of them. He'd stayed with the Dalish mages to help treat the sick girl, and they'd be waiting in the meantime.

Cousland visibly bristled at the news. "So much for a 'short delay.'" He muttered. "At this rate, I can't help but wonder if we'll ever reach Ostagar."

"In time. Should Rosaya's condition improve enough for her to travel, I intend to bring her with us as a recruit," said Duncan.

Isefel raised a brow. "You sure? She seemed pretty young, and we don't even know if she can fight well."

"Dalish hunters are nearly legendary for their ability and skill—more than that, we Grey Wardens have a cure that could save her life," he said as the hunters brought them to the edge of a clearing, not far from where it seemed the Dalish had made camp.

"So why not just give it to her and be on our way?" Cousland asked.

Duncan shook his head. "I am afraid it is not so simple," he said. "I'm going to go speak with the clans craftsman and peruse their wares. Would any of you like to accompany me?"

"_Sure, I'll come,"_ Liri said. _"I want to see what kind of ingredients these elves keep on hand."_

"When you say 'ingredients,' would it be too much to hope you're planning on making a pie?" Aothor said after translating, casting the lady dwarf a wary eye.

Liri grinned mischievously. Isefel didn't need to understand hand-speech to recognize the sign for "explosion."

Duncan shook his head, but there was a fondness in his eyes. "Very well. As for the rest of you, we are welcome in the camp at Marethari's word, but it would be wise to maintain a respectful distance. The clan is on edge enough as it is—we would be poor guests to cause our hosts undue anxiety."

"Aye, Commander." Aothor nodded.

Duncan and Liri moved turned and moved into the heart of the camp. Isefel wondered what exactly Liri was hoping to make—the stink bombs had been interesting, if disgusting. What else did the little dwarf have stored away in her brain?

Just a short distance away from where they were was pen full of silver deer. Cousland's dog stared at them intently, ears perked up and posture poised to charge at them.

Cousland grabbed hold of her collar and turned her attention away from them. "Calm down there."

"You going to be able to keep your hound under control?" Isefel asked, brow raised as she watched them. "I don't think the Dalish will like it very much if she tries to kill their… whatever those are."

"Lady knows not to attack something unless it's actively aggressive or I signal for it. Doesn't stop her from being curious, though." Cousland said, settling down on a log. "You don't need to worry about her." He said, looking at her pointedly.

Isefel half shrugged. "I'm not a dog person," She said icily.

"Those deer… I think they're called halla," Aothor said. "Their milk and cheese are supposed to delicious."

Isefel shook her head at them, something between disbelief and amusement. "How is it that all of you know so much about the Dalish when before this morning I didn't even think they existed?"

"I studied the cultures of the surface," Aothor said. "We didn't have a lot of information about the Dalish, but enough for a general picture of their lifestyle. Occasionally Orzammar trades with the clans and their goods are usually worth a lot, if for nothing more than being exotic. Anyways, shall we go see if they have any cheese to sell?"

"Sure," Cousland shrugged. "I could do with something to eat besides trail food." At his side Lady barked in agreement and Isefel flinched in spite of herself. If the others noticed, they blessedly didn't mention anything. "Lady, stay here. We don't want to upset the special elfy-deer."

Lady whined loudly but settled down in the grass with her head between her paws. At least she was obedient. Isefel suspected he was leaving her behind as much for her benefit as for the halla. She couldn't help but be a little grateful.

A red-headed elven woman was managing sacks of feed out at the front of the pen. She startled slightly at their approach but composed herself quickly enough. "Anderan atish'an. You are with the Grey Warden, yes?"

"Yes," Cousland said with a nod. "We were wondering if you had any cheese to sell."

"Coin is of no use to us Dalish, but if you'd like to offer trade for it…?"

Isefel tuned out slightly as he began bartering with the woman. She cast her gaze out across the halla pen. A familiar voice drifted over the wind. She strained her ears, listening. Could it be…?

She slipped away from the others, following the voices into the pen. The halla stared at her, moving away slightly as she walked along the edge of the herd, clearly wary of her. By a section of fencing two elven men stood with an aged halla, one with an extended hand for the halla to smell.

His hair was a familiar ginger color, and if that didn't give it away his human-tailored clothes certainly set him apart from the others. The halla startled at her approach, turning and bolting to join the rest of it's herd. The two turned to her at the commotion.

"Another flat-ear?" the Dalish asked, turning to her. "Used to be we rarely got city dwellers coming to the clan, and now we have two in as many days. Aneth'ara, welcome. Have you come to connect with your true people?"

"Pol, what are you doing here?" Isefel asked, ignoring him and focusing on the bare-faced elf. "Where's your brother Viradan?"

"Not long after we got out of Denerim we got jumped by some thugs Viradan owed money to. They killed him, I only just got away with my life." He said, staring fixedly at the ground. "I kept going on my own, found this camp. It was a lucky thing. I'd heard rumors in a nearby human village that a Dalish camp was close, and I was fortunate enough to find their hunters."

"You were fortunate I didn't shoot you, Pol. I thought you were a shem, and a bandit at that. You're not the first city elf to rejoin his people," the Dalish man said, "I'm sure you'll find life among us more satisfying than with the shems. As will you." He looked at her expectantly, but Isefel shook her head.

"I'm not here for the Dalish. I'm with the Grey Wardens." She gestured over her shoulder to where Aothor and Cousland were still bartering with the halla keeper.

"Ah," he said, face falling as his whole recruitment speech was failing. "So, you're with the group that found Mahariel, then? It's all anyone has been talking about all morning."

Pol openly gawked at her. "You're with the Grey Wardens? How? I thought you were getting married… and what happened to your eye? I take it that bandage isn't just for show."

"It's a little complicated, but to keep everyone safe I had to leave the city. Look, I'm so sorry about your brother…" She said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "But I don't think you should be out here. You should go home. I'm sure Taeodor and your parents miss you, and they should know what happened to Viradan. The worry will eat them up, otherwise."

Pol shook his head, drawing back. "No. I know we hear all kinds of terrible stories in the Alienage about the Dalish… like that they sacrifice babies to the gods and perform orgies during blood moons…"

The Dalish man laughed, shaking his head. "Is that really what you flat ears say about us? What wild and silly imaginations you have."

"… but these are good people. And I left to protect everyone, just like you did."

Isefel stilled, a frown growing across her face. "What did you do?"

Pol let out a sigh of shame. "I got arrested. Theft. I escaped, but the guards were still searching for me. And Viradan got on the wrong side of some powerful gangs… we figured our best chance was to leave the city so the consequences at least wouldn't come back on our family."

She could not argue his reasoning, not when she'd done the exact same thing. "Are you sure that this is what you want? That you want to be separated from your family, maybe forever?"

Doubt flickered on his face, but he steeled himself. "I am. This is where the Maker—maybe the Creators—lead me, so this is where I'll stay. At least for now. Besides, haven't you ever wanted to get out of Denerim and explore?"

"Of course I have," Isefel said, "I just never wanted it to be a permanent sort of exploration, the kind where I can't ever go back. Denerim will always be my home—I'm a city girl at heart. I wish… I wish I didn't have to leave the way that I did."

"Well, for better or worse, here we are," said Pol. "Junar and I better get back to introducing me to the halla—there's so much for me to learn. Safe travels, Tabris."

"Yeah. You too." She turned away from as they turned their attention back to the halla. The situation was surreal. Not only were the Dalish real, but her old neighbor was now one of them.

The idea of the Dalish had always seemed to glamorous—wild elves living free from the rules—but watching them scoop halla droppings stripped away the whimsicality more than a little.

She met back up with Aothor and Cousland as they began making their way back to their designated spot with a small block of cheese. They settled themselves in the grass and Aothor began cutting off slices of it.

"Alright, so we have time to kill. What now?" Cousland asked.

Isefel reached into her pack and pulled out a deck of cards. She had a feeling they'd come in handy. "Wicked Grace, anyone?"

She drifts along with the melody. The song was safe, comforting… like a lullaby, the kind parents sang to their children to help guide them into a rest of sweet dreams. But it is mournful, bittersweet and lonely. Comforting itself through the singing as much as it soothes her.

The song grew quiet. Rosaya stirred—where was it going? She wanted to hear more. She needed to. She ached so terribly. The music restored her, like ointment on a burn. She could not bear to be without it.

She moved, chasing the music down. She is not fast. She crawled, scraped and scrambled. She moves for what feels like an agonizing eternity, desperately chasing down the music. She did not know where it was going. Did not care. She only knew that she could not let it leave her.

A new note resonates, similar to the song but different. Harmonizing in tandem with the sound. The difference is sharp, but complimentary. Her vision clears for just a moment of the black haze of her dream—vision?—and she sees a shemlen man.

"Shem… _sathan ma halani_…" Why… was she asking for help? From a shem, of all things? A thought stirred in her distantly, like something was wrong.

Yes. Something was wrong. The music… was growing quieter. The dark haze of her mind reclaimed her, desperately searching for the song. As the song faded, it changed. The melodic voice changed to a whisper, low and sinister. Rosaya strained for it, gasping and reaching.

Just when it seemed to be gone for good, the silence broke with a thundering roar. She shattered at the sound. Her blood quaked in her veins. She choked, struggling for air.

The silence drowns her out. Desperately she latches onto the harmony, but without the song to accompany it… it feels hollow and empty. She wanted to move again, to search after the melody she do desperately craved, but her the pain in her body was to great for her to even try.

Near the harmony is a point of discord. A contrasting note, resonating in a different key. The sensation makes her skin crawl. It draws closer at times, then pulls away, then draws closer again. What is it? Why does it sound so… different, so wrong?

_Kill it, crush it, destroy it._

The impulse inside her is so violent, so sudden, that even through the haze of darkness she is shocked, but she cannot help but want to comply. Even as she gave into it, she could not move, could do nothing to silence the point of discord.

The contention continued to pull at her, raising irritation in her very flesh.

Something soothing washed over her. Gentle an familiar… but it tried to part the dark haze. She retreated, recoiling from the burning light of it.

The harmony left her, moving away and leaving her only with the discordant sound and the penetrating lights. The very heart of her rebelled against it. She didn't want this. She wanted the music back.

The light grows blinding trying to purge the lingering of the music from within her. But it's roots are strong—it retreats deep within her, coiled tightly in the shadows of her being, shielding itself. Quieted, but not quelled. Still, but not severed, and buries itself as a seed.

Finally there is peace. Her dreams drift, and she is taken by emptiness.

They waited out the afternoon with cards. The stakes were low to non-existent since they barely had any coin between the three of them, so mostly the wagered chores. Who had to go collect firewood, who would go get water, who made dinner, who had camp detail, and so forth.

Cousland fancied himself as a decent Grace player—with all the time he'd spent playing the game with his guards and the people down in the pub, he'd picked up a few skills and prided himself as one of the better players he knew. Even so, it was a bit of a mixed bag as far as victories went.

Aothor was stone-faced and nearly impossible to read, a strategic player making small and minor plays as part of some grander plan. He was probably killer at chess with a logic-centered mind like that.

Isefel was a more aggressive player, upsetting the balance of a round by throwing in daring bets or pulling back unexpectedly. Her style revolved around keeping them guessing and on their toes before trying to pull the metaphorical rug out from under them.

Once Liri returned from the clan craftsman, pack visibly heavier than it had been before, she jumped in on the game as well.

The rest of them very quickly banned her from being the dealer. Surprising absolutely no one, the lady dwarf was not only a thief but also a cheat, shuffling the cards and stacking them ridiculously in her favor. Even after she was barred from being the dealer, she still found ways to palm cards.

She didn't even have the decency to be ashamed or upset every time Cousland caller her out on it, only laughing and throwing her cards down and joining back in the next round. He doubted she was even really trying to win, and more just causing trouble in the game for the fun of it.

His own strength in the matches mostly came from calling his opponents bluffs or catching them—specifically Liri—cheating, using their tells to turn matches in his favor. It was harder with the likes of Aothor especially, but even so he got lucky a few times based on gut instinct.

The biggest upset came during their first game after supper. Aothor was re-drawing a card from the deck after laying one down, and unable to quell a sneaking suspicion, Cousland reach out and caught him by the wrist. Aothor jerked back, and the motion caused several cards to fall out of his sleeve.

The dwarf grinned in a guilty sort of way. "Would you believe me if I said I don't know how those got there?"

Liri cackled wildly, dropping her cards and holding her stomach as she doubled over with laughter.

"And here I thought you were the honest type." Cousland shook his head but couldn't keep from ginning a little himself.

"I am. Mostly." He said with a shrug, folding the rest of his cards.

Liri signed something, but for once Aothor didn't seem inclined to translate automatically and only shrugged as he replied. "I'll have you know that never once have I lied _directly _in an official capacity. Wicked Grace, however, is hardly official."

Isefel drew the Angel of Death and the rest of them showed their hands. He and Isefel tied for the highest set, making a draw. Cousland took the cards and began to reshuffle them for another round.

He glanced up briefly—Edmund was making his way to them from across the camp. "Care for a round of Wicked Grace? Fair warning, these dwarves aren't trustworthy," he said, both Aothor and Liri feigning offense at his words.

The mage snorted a laugh. "Oh, so it's not just me now, is it? Comforting," Edmund said, shaking his head. "I'll pass. Don't know how to play."

"_You don't know how to play Wicked Grace? That's basically criminal. I'm sure that's against the law somewhere, right?"_ Liri said, looking to the others for confirmation.

"Just never took the time to learn. Too busy consorting with demons and stuff, you know how it is." He said with dry humor.

Cousland dealt the cards out as the mage approached. "You look like shit." He was unusually pale and moved sluggishly.

Edmund rolled his eyes. "I feel like shit. Funny how channeling magic for hours at a time with minimal breaks will do that to a person."

"_Did you at least learn some cool healing spells?" _Liri asked.

Edmund half shrugged, settling himself on the ground. "Well, let's find out. Isefel, come here."

Isefel shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not opposed, but I'd like confirmation whatever you're doing is going to work before I let you get it near my face."

"Fair enough, I suppose. Cousland, what about you? I could probably take care of your scrape pretty quickly."

Cousland shook his head. "I'll pass." He couldn't really pinpoint a reason why, but he didn't really like the thought of the mage casting anything on him at all. His own wound was superficial in nature anyways, hardly something to fuss over. It was already mostly healed.

Edmund sighed, removing his coat and shirt, undoing the bandages wrapped around his shoulder. "Guess I'll be the Guinea pig, then." The arrow wound was on its way to healing, and not looking too bad considering it was but a few days old.

They all paused their game, unable to stop themselves from watching as Edmund manifested small pinpricks of golden light at his fingertips and pressed them to the wound. The mage hissed in pain and tensed but continued with the spell.

"… what're you doing?" Isefel asked, brow creased in concern.

"Dissolving the dead tissue so the healthy stuff can grow unhindered. Damn, that really stings," he said, pulling the spell away briefly. When he pressed the spell back to his wound it began closing, although slowly. He stopped after a moment, swaying slightly where he sat. "That's probably enough for now… probably shouldn't keep doing this if it's making me this dizzy."

"Get some rest," Isefel said. "If you've been using your magic all day you're probably running on fumes right now. If you don't let yourself have some time to recharge you won't be ready when we need you."

"Good point." Edmund said. "I want to be able to heal your eye, though."

Isefel shrugged, going back through her cards. "There will be time for that later. Go to bed already."

"Okay, okay, no need to tell me again." Edmund grabbed his stuff and turned towards where they had their bedrolls set up, but stopped short and turned back. "Where's Duncan?"

"We went to scout the tree line alone. Said he had a feeling something was near." Cousland said, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice. Duncan's senses had already misled them once. He couldn't bring himself to be confident in them after that.

"Oh. Well, when he comes back, can you tell him—"

"You may tell me yourself," said Duncan, emerging from the tree line. "How is Rosaya's condition?" Duncan asked.

"Stable. Marethari's magic has done all it can. The infection is contained for now—we can't really do anything else until Rosaya wakes up, which probably won't be until tomorrow morning" Edmund said. "Marethari wanted to see you again, by the way."

"Very well," Duncan said with a nod. "Maintain a watch tonight—something sinister is stirring in these woods." With that warning he went back into the camp.

Edmund was the first one asleep. Cousland knew it was because he was genuinely exhausted, but he noticed it also got him out of renewing their conversation from the tavern. He couldn't help but wonder if all mages were this slippery, or if it was just this one.

His own dreams were pleasant, peaceful. He desperately wished they were not.

He was home, walking the streets of the city of Highever with Fergus and Father. Oren ran ahead of them, playing tag with some local children. Oriana and Mother stood with some merchants, examining local goods. All was as it should be, with the Cousland guards patrolling the walls.

The peace ached. The serenity burned for the fact that he knew it was not real, and that his life would never be like that again. He would have welcomed nightmares of the castle's fall rather than be taunted and tormented by something he could never have.

Being wakened for his watch was welcome. Despite the tumultuous events of the day, he'd been glad for a small chance to breathe. Isefel was on watch with him, and he sat with Lady's head in his lap, stroking her as she snored and drooled. The night passed in blessed peace.

Whenever he was with Lady, Isefel kept a large distance between them, making conversation awkward and difficult. The elven woman's behavior towards his hound was, unfortunately, not something new to him. Though Lady was fairly gentle as far as war dogs went, she was still exactly that—a war dog. It wasn't so uncommon for someone to be nervous around her.

He wasn't too worried about it, though. Lady's winning personality would warm Isefel over eventually.

Morning comes with obnoxious squealing calls from the halla. He'd thought their old rooster was bad, but this was taking a wake-up-call to another level. With no destination to rush to or force pursuing behind them, they were allowed for the first time something of an easy morning.

At least, that's what it seemed like at first.

Duncan stood for several minutes at the edge of the clearing, staring into the forest. "Darkspawn are gathering west of here. Near where we found the cave, I believe."

"Are you sure? Or are we going to find another elf instead?" Cousland couldn't help but be doubtful, especially after yesterday's false alarm.

Duncan glanced at him without turning his head. "Mind yourself, recruit," he said dangerously. Cousland looked away with a huff. "Pack up camp, and alert Marethari. She should begin moving her people away from here. And we have darkspawn to deal with."

Light filtered through the cracks in the wood of the aravel. Rosaya thought idly that they should get that patched—a leaky aravel made for unhappy elves.

Her dreams had been so odd… but now she barely remembered them, only the fading linger of them remaining in her mind. It probably wasn't important, anyways.

She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She was sore all over, aching in a way she could only compare to what she felt after a long fever. She blinked, taking in her surroundings. This wasn't the aravel she shared with Ashalle—this was the Keepers.

Pieces of memory rushed back to her mind, slamming into her one after the other with force that left her shaken. The shems in the forest. The cave.

Tamlen.

Rosaya barreled out of the aravel so fast she nearly knocked herself over. Her balance was off—she grabbed onto one of the statues erected by the entrance to steady herself.

"You're awake! You've the gods own luck, lethallan." Rosaya looked up to see Feneral rising from a seat where he'd clearly been waiting for her. He reached out and help steady her, taking her in with a concerned gaze. "You're back at camp. Everyone is worried sick about you. How do you feel?"

Rosaya swallowed—her throat felt dry. "Worried. Where is Tamlen?"

Fenarel's face fell. "We… don't know. The shems who brought you here saw no sign of him."

Shems? There had been shems in the forest, earlier, but why would they have brought her here? She took a breath. She felt a little better, but no less confused. "I… don't remember anything. I was in a cave. Then… nothing. You said that shems brought me here?"

"A Grey Warden, a human tower slave, and some others. The Grey Warden appeared out of nowhere with you slung over his shoulder," he said. "You were delirious with fever. He said that they found you outside a cave in the forest, unconscious and alone. He brought you here, but they all ran off again this morning. The Keeper's been using magic to heal you."

"Is anyone looking for Tamlen?" Rosaya glanced around, in some foolish hope that she would see him lounging in the shade of a tree as he often did when he was trying to relax and get away from his chores. No such luck.

"Of course! Most of the hunters are off looking for him right now. But the Keeper wanted to talk to you as soon as you awoke. Stay here—I'll get her." Without further ado Fenarel ran off.

Rosaya paced back and forth, trying to orient herself. The aching had relieved some, and she no longer felt so groggy, but she still couldn't organize the contents of her brain. Everything from the day before felt so… cluttered, scrambled. But the fear that something happened to Tamlen was crystal clear.

The Keeper came to her moments later, concern quickly giving way to relief. "I see you are awake, da'len," she said. "It is fortunate Duncan found you when he did… I know not what dark power held you, but it nearly bled the life from you. It was difficult even for my magic to keep you alive."

Rosaya blinked, a bit startled by her words. Had she truly been that bad? "Then Tamlen could be sick as well?"

"If he encountered the same thing you did, yes." Keeper Marethari nodded, expression grave. "The Grey Wardens said they found you alone outside the cave, already stricken. Duncan thought there may have been darkspawn creatures inside the cave. Is that true?"

"I… I'm not sure. What does a darkspawn creature look like?"

"Like a man, but dark and tainted with evil," said the Keeper. That sounded like a typical human to Rosaya, but clearly the Keeper meant that this was something different. "Perhaps you fought one in the cave and it wounded you?"

Rosaya shook her head. "There were many monsters, and dead men that walked… but nothing like what you're describing."

"Walking corpses? Dark magic, but not darkspawn. I know not what the other creatures might have been." The Keeper drew closer, bring a gentle touch of magic to her fingers and pressing them directly to Rosaya's heart. It's warmth flooded through her, easing some of the lingering tension in her body. "What else did you find? Think, da'len—what is the last thing you remember?"

Clarity struck her. The bright light, it's source—the reflectionless glass. "A mirror. Tamlen touched it."

Keeper Marethari pulled back, a frown on her face. "A mirror? And it caused all this? I have never heard of such a thing in all the lore we have collected," she said with a sigh, shaking her head and turning away slightly. "I was hoping for answers when you woke, but there are only more questions. And Tamlen remains missing. He is more important than any lore in these ruins. If he is as sick as you were, his condition is grave."

"We have to find him," Rosaya said, strengthening herself. "We will find him."

"Duncan and his recruits returned to the cave to search for darkspawn earlier this morning, but we cannot rely on them to look for Tamlen as well. We must go ourselves, and quickly. Do you feel well enough to show us the way, da'len? Without you we will not find it."

Rosaya nodded. "I am up to it, Keeper. I feel fine." She had to be. It was her fault Tamlen was missing—she'd clearly left him alone, and she hadn't listened to him when he said he felt the place was dangerous. She should have been better. But now, all she could do was try and be strong.

"I am relieved to hear it. I am ordering the clan to pack up camp so we can move north. Take Merrill with you to the cave. Find Tamlen if you can, but do it swiftly," said the Keeper.

"The clan is leaving? Why?" They'd barely been in this part of the forest for two weeks—normally they spent nearly a month in a location.

"If there is any truth to what Duncan said, then darkspawn may show up in these parts soon. We must get away from that horde. But that's not our only concern." The Keeper glanced at her with a critical sort of eye. "Did you encounter any other humans out in the forest?"

"Three of them, yes. They were the ones who told us about the cave. Tamlen and I drove them off," said Rosaya.

The Keeper nodded, as if her suspicions were being confirmed. "Although you hurt no one, these humans roused their nearby village against us. As everywhere, our people are not welcome here. We have stayed too long, and we must move on—quickly."

Rosaya bristled at the news. "You're just going to let those shemlen drive us off?"

"Our clan could slaughter their entire village if we cared to… but at the cost of bringing their king's rage down on our heads. These people are simple and have simple fears. This is their land, so we will go peacefully."

Rosaya didn't like it. Didn't like that they were being forced away. But it wasn't her decision to make. "Are you not interested in the ruins and the mirror?" she asked instead of pressing the issue.

Keeper smiled in a regretful sort of way. "I would be lying if I said I was not. But whatever knowledge lies in that cave is not worth our children. I send you back in hopes of finding Tamlen, and that is all."

"Take Merrill to the cave and find Tamlen. I understand."

"Be careful. Should you come across this strange mirror again, do not touch it," Keeper Marethari said gravely. Rosaya didn't need to be told twice—she honestly never wanted to see another looking glass as long as she lived. "Go quickly, for Tamlen's life hangs in the balance."

She couldn't help but sigh as she moved away from the Keeper's aravel and into the camp—so much for "earning her vallaslin by morning." _Nuva mar'av aria ma._

She passed the main fire where Harhen Paivel was teaching the da'len. One of them leapt up at the sight of her, sprinting over and wrapping his twiggy little arms around her legs. "You're okay!" he exclaimed.

The other children, thoroughly distracted, turned from their lesson and increasingly irate instructor and ran over.

"Where's Tamlen?" One of the little girls asked, "I want him to come home. He promised to teach me how to fletch arrows."

"Well, we'll have to see to it that he keeps that promise, won't we?" She said, giving them the most reassuring smile she could muster. She caught Harhen Paivel's gaze, and she herded the da'len back to their lesson.

Paivel looked her over at her approach, almost like he was scanning for injury or ailment. "So you have returned to us, da'len. We are grateful you are whole and well."

"I'm glad to be here, Harhen."

"So you should be!" He snapped, tone changing abruptly. The da'len flinched and looked away from his ire, and it was all Rosaya could do to maintain the elder elf's piercing gaze. "What were you two thinking, wandering into that cave without first coming to tell the Keeper?"

"We wanted to see if there was anything to tell, Harhen," she said as evenly as she could.

Paivel folded his arms over his chest, fully prepared for a lecture. "Once you saw what was inside, you should have returned. But you kept exploring, didn't you? Ever ignoring the dangers, always blindly wandering into situations beyond your grasp and ability, head no doubt filled with foolish notions of glory."

His every word heaped a new layer of guilt onto the weight she was already beginning to carry. She didn't need to hear this from him—she already knew and understood everything he was saying. Hearing it said out loud only made it hurt more.

Harhen Paivel sighed at her silence and lack of defense. "I suppose your youth can be forgiven. Sadly, Tamlen pays the price. Losing you would be a terrible crime, da'len. You belong to more than just yourself. Or do you not remember?"

Rosaya turned her gaze away from him to the ground. "I'm sorry, Harhen. I failed Tamlen, and I failed the clan. I'll try harder next time." Always, always, he treated her as if she were still a child. She seriously doubted if he saw her as any different than the little children.

"Would you even know the reason behind your efforts? I wonder…" Paivel shook his head disparagingly. He cast his glance aside to the da'len who still watched them. "Come. Let us tell these children of the fall of the Dales. You can honor me by sharing in the telling."

"I don't know if I can spare the time, Harhen," she said, unable to keep the coldness fully from her tone. "Keeper Marethari has set me with an urgent task."

Paivel waved a hand, dismissive of her words. "All Dalish should know this tale and hold its lessons close to heart. Children, hear of the fall of the Dales! Hear the tale of what makes you Dalish. Would you care to begin, da'len?"

Rosaya wanted simply to turn and leave. But she had to prove to Harhen Paivel she was not the immature little da'len he treated her as. She sat down on a log, placing herself on eye level with the children. "Long ago, we were slaves to the humans."

"Yes, slaves to a terrible empire the humans built on darkest magic," he continued, doing similarly. The da'len began to form a semi-circle around them, seating themselves in the dirt. "When it fell, we became free. We built a homeland in the Dales, worshipping the Creators and rebuilding the culture and history we lost in our long years of slavery."

"For the time we had peace, and developed as a people, but the humans wouldn't let us be."

"They were resentful: because we would not worship their gods, and because we put our people first. Over the years their nations grew tired cold towards the Dales. In their eyes, we were blasphemers and cruel tyrants." Paivel gestured grandly as he spoke, holding the young ones attention with the flourish of his movements.

"Then they declared war on the Dales, vowing to destroy us."

"And so the Dales fell. They took our lands and dispersed our people, forcing us to live in their cities and abandon our gods. But many of us refused to relinquish our ways. We instead chose to scatter to the winds, wandering the lands."

"We chose the nomadic life of freedom rather than live constrained by human rule."

"To survive and preserve our culture, the clans stay apart until the Elvhenan have a homeland once more."

In spite of the resentment she still felt towards the Harhen for his lecture, she couldn't help but smile just a bit. "We will return the old ways to those who have lost them."

"'We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path.'"

Rosaya stood up, motioning for the young elves to do the same. "'We are the last Elvhenan. Never again shall we submit.'"

Paivel turned to her as he dismissed the children to their chores. "Thank you for your forbearance, da'len. You remember both the tale the Oath of the Dales perfectly."

"How could I not?" Rosaya asked with a raised brow. "You only told it to us a few hundred times growing up." Rosaya turned to go, but stopped herself short. Paivel was the clan's story tellers maybe… "Harhen… did elves ever live in caves?"

"I've never heard of such a thing," he said, stroking his chin in thought. "But in the days of ancient Arlathan, we lived free and spread far across the continent. We were as varied as the shemlen, though fewer in number. Perhaps some of us lived in caves then, but all knowledge from that era is lost." Harhen Paivel waved her off and turned back to the fire. "I will let you get back to your tasks. I pray you find Tamlen quickly."

Rosaya continued through the camp. She knew the elder meant well, that he did care for her. But she was long tired of enduring his lectures. All the more reason she had to set all this right.

She spotted Maren near the halla herd as she began drawing nearer to the forest propper. A pain pulled at her. Inalanen, and the wolves. In all her worry over Tamlen she'd nearly forgotten about the fallen halla.

Maren smiled at her approach. "Aneth ara. It's good to see you recovered."

"I'm glad to be recovered. Maren…" She hesitated, not sure how to continue. "Tamlen and I found Inalanen in the woods. The wolfpack took her."

Maren paled at the news.. "Oh, Creators preserve us… did she suffer?"

"She was strong to the end." Rosaya said with as reassuringly as she could. "She killed one of the wolves and wounded a few others before they took her down."

"That's something, at least. She was always so strong. It's better than wondering, at least." Maren said softly. "I'll have one of the hunters gather her horns. We shouldn't leave them for some shemlen to claim."

Rosaya turned her gaze to the rest of the herd. "How are the other halla faring?"

"They fare well. The Keeper called for the clan to move on, and they will be ready to take us. One is heavy with calf, but it shouldn't be a problem," Maren said with a shrug. She was quiet for a moment, hesitating on the obvious question. "May I ask of Tamlen's fate? Some say the clan will leave before we can find him"

Rosaya shook her head. "We're going to find him. Don't worry."

Maren did not look comforted. "The halla mourn our fallen, as we mourn theirs. No sound is more heart wrenching than their mourning cry. At least they won't be crying over you. They are quite fond of you. The can tell the quality of a soul, the elders say, and you've always gotten on well with them. If you weren't so good with a bow I'd have taken you for my own apprentice."

"I'm fond of them, as well," Rosaya said, reaching across the gate and stroking the hide of one of the bucks who'd drawn near as they spoke. "They are beautiful creatures, and nearly as intelligent as we are. Some might argue even more so. Besides, their cheese is my favorite food."

Maren laughed a bit. "I know, you could go through an entire wheel of the stuff in one siting of no one stopped you. I admire them for their strength and pride. They are equals, not servants like the shemlen horses. At any rate, I do not envy the Keeper's decision. I will pray for Tamlen's safe return."

"Ma serannas, Maren. I'm certain everything will be okay." Though she spoke the words, she could not convince the small seed of anxiety in her heart. She pushed it away. He would be fine. He had to be. She didn't know what she'd do, otherwise.

Irritation rose beneath her skin as she turned away and she couldn't keep from itching her skin at the strange sensation. Had she brushed against some rashvine on accident, perhaps? But it shouldn't be growing in this area so late in the year…

Whatever the case, she did her best to ignore it. Scratching at it would probably only spread it.

Fenarel stood near the craftsman's aravels. He was swaying in place and glanceing about nervously. Rosaya got the distinct impression that he was waiting for her.

"Is the Keeper sending you back to that cave to look for Tamlen?" Fenarel asked as she approached.

Rosaya nodded. "Yes, I'm going with Merrill."

"I want to go with you. Keeper Marethari probably won't approve, but I can help find Tamlen," he said. Truth be told, Rosaya was not surprised by his declaration. Of all the hunters, Fenarel was one of the most fiercely defensive of the clan. He probably took Tamlen's going missing as nearly as much a personal matter as she did.

"Alright, come with us. We can probably make use of an extra bow. Speaking of, I lost mine in the cave. I'll have to get a new one from Master Ilen," she said. Fenarel seemed relieved, like he wasn't expecting her to agree so easily. Whatever the Keeper may think, finding Tamlen was Rosaya's top priority, and she would use all the help she could get.

"I'll follow you, just to make sure Merrill doesn't go running to the Keeper when you tell her I'm coming," he said.

Rosaya couldn't help but chuckle. "Easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?"

They found Master Ilen in his usual place at the crafters aravel. Rosaya nearly expected a scolding from him the likes of which Hareh Paivel had given her, especially since she was meant to be assisting him instead of going with Tamlen into the forest, but he only gave her a kind smile.

"I'm glad you recovered. Once we find Tamlen, we can concentrate on the journey northward," he said evenly. His practicality and focus was something she greatly appreciated about the head of crafts—much as in life as in his work, he prioritized the things that were truly important.

The hunter standing with Master Ilen turned a well-made bow over in his hands. "Thank you for the bow, Master Ilen. It is light and sturdy… much better than the one I made last year."

Ilen nodded briefly to the man. "You are more than welcome. My father made it and used it in the battle against the Clayne tribes."

Rosaya eyed the weapon, taking in it's delicate carvings. "Wasn't that the battle where the Dalish clans of Ferelden united to drive out the barbarians?"

Ilen smiled with something like pride. "The very one."

"I will carry it with honor, and try to live up to it's history."

Rosaya "I lost my bow in the caves. Might I request one from you, Master Ilen?"

Ilen "One of my own crafting, perhaps?" He took a fresh-made bow from his stand and passed it to her. She turned it over in her hands—it was smooth, bare of any carvings. She would decorate it herself to make it her own over time. "This one might not have a history, but you'll provide one for it soon enough, yes?"

"Ma serannas, Master Ilen. I will use it well." She said, turning away and back to her task.

Merrill waited for them exactly as the Keeper had indicated, the young First ever bouncing with barely contained nervous energy.

"Oh, there you are!" She said, perking up at their approach. "The Keeper told me I'm to accompany you back to those caves. As her apprentice, I may see something you missed. But our main objective is to find Tamlen, of course. We should hurry—he may not have much time."

Rosaya stopped at her side, focusing out into the woods rather than at the elven mage. "How much did the Keeper tell you?"

Merrill shrugged, twirling her staff in her grip. "Enough to pique my interest… and my concern. You can explain the rest on the way."

"And you're not worried about getting sick like I did?"

"A bit, but the Keeper cured you with help from myself and the Grey Warden's shemlen mage. You were in a terrible way, and the sickness if clearly dangerous, but if it can be cured I don't think we'll have anything to worry about," she said cheerfully.

Rosaya blinked in surprise, focusing back on Merrill. "Back up—you said a shemlen mage helped cure me?"

Merrill frowned, shifting in place. "Oh, had no one mentioned that? Well, yes. Truth be spoke, he didn't do much more than channel his magic so the Keeper could use it, but he was very keen on helping. Polite, as well, if a bit odd. Not really what I expected of a shem," Merrill shook the thought away, reforcsing herself. "Anyways, even if I get sick, finding Tamlen—or something valuable—will be worth it."

"Alright, fine. Fenarel is coming as well. Any objections?" Rosaya asked, gesturing at the elven man standing just a few steps from them.

Merrill looked at Fenarel uncertainly. "That depends on the Keeper. I thought we're supposed to go alone."

"I did ask. She's fine with it." They didn't have time to go all they way back and check. They had to go now, for Tamlen's sake.

"She is? I suppose I needn't worry about it, then. Are you ready?"

Rosaya was already starting into the forest. "Let's go."


	15. A Blighted Mirror (Part 3)

Liri crushed dead leaves under her foot as she walked, intentionally listening for the crisp crackle of them falling apart beneath her foot. Edmund mentioned before that during warmer parts of the year they were green and filled the currently empty branches, and then died as it got cooler only to regrow as the cycle of seasons turned over again.

It was something she couldn't really imagine. How did the leaves manage to regrow? What did it look like when they did? The Orzammar was the opposite—nothing ever changed.

The Dalish camp had been interesting, at least. She was an outsider to the surface and even she could see the vast difference in the way they lived compared to Isefel's people. Liri often caught the city elf watching them with detached wonder during their stay there, like she still couldn't believe they were real.

Liri tapped Aothor to get his help then went to stand by the elven lady, rummaging in her bag. She pulled out a dark leather eyepatch and passed it to Isefel, who looked at it with a question on her face.

"_I had the Dalish craftsman throw this together with some extra leather. Figured it might come in handy once your wound clears up,"_ Liri said, Aothor translating faithfully as ever. Isefel looked between the two of them briefly—she hadn't quite gotten used to it yet, but she took the eyepatch and turned it over in her hand.

"You know, when I was a kid, I liked to pretend I was a pirate," Isefel said with a smile at the memory.

"Well here you are, one step closer to fulfilling that dream," Aothor chuckled.

"I suppose if the Warden life doesn't work out I could always try to make a living as a raider on the high seas. I'll have the get-up for it, at least." Isefel shrugged, stowing the eyepatch in her own bag. "Thank you Liri, that was very thoughtful."

"_Don't mention it,"_ Liri said, _"I had this carta buddy once who lost his eye to an aggressive nug—stop laughing, I'm completely serious—and he borrowed a ton of money to spring for an artificial replacement. Whenever we had to do interrogations he'd pop it out and leave it on the table if he needed to step out of the room. Told 'em that even though he wasn't there anymore the eye was watching."_

Isefel grinned, "If I ever get an artificial eye, I'll keep that in mind. Could come in handy."

"Wait, one-eyed carta thug?" Aothor asked, pulling on his beard as he thought, "His name Havorn by any chance?"

Liri raised a brow at the question. _"You the reason he never came back from that assassination mission a few years back?" _she asked.

The prince nodded in reply. "Tried to kill me one night. Honestly, he was really sloppy about it. Either inexperienced or overconfident. Anyways, I was tipped off about it and ready for him. Got a clean punch at his face—eye popped right out. Very weird in the moment, hilarious in hindsight. Figured out who he was and who he worked for during questioning—he squealed like the nug that bit him."

"That sort of thing happens to you often, does it? The people being paid to kill you thing, not the eyeball." Cousland asked.

"Used to. After the first couple times you stop giving it the drama it doesn't deserve, and you can pick on patterns on when it'll happen again. At some point, the assassination attempts become less of a threat and more of a formality. You're not somebody in Orzammar unless someone else is after your life." Aothor shrugged. "Sorry I killed your friend, by the way."

"_Nah, he wasn't my friend. Just a coworker. And kind of an ass, too. If anything you did me a favor," _she said. He'd been her partner before Leske—and Leske, as obnoxious as he could be, was a notable improvement.

Liri couldn't help but think back through all the different assassination jobs she'd been given over the years. There were just a few, those sorts of jobs more often got assigned to Beraht's more favored goons, but there were a couple.

"_Pretty sure I was tasked with killing your brother once, actually," _Liri said, trying to remember the incident.

Aothor gaped at her, completely forgetting to translate. "Are you serious? Which one?"

"_Younger one. Couple of the more traditional noble houses got pissed at him about something, went to Beraht about it. Didn't really work out, though. I got into the palace disguised as a servant, but some of the workers realized I wasn't one of the approved staff and called the guards before I could even take a stab at Bhelen. Snitches." _It was the event that ended up both proving her worth to Beraht and labeling her a hazard. _"I knew I couldn't do the job since I'd been tipped, so I bailed. Only reason Beraht didn't kill my when I got back was because I grabbed about fifty sovereign's worth of valuables on my way out. He decided I was better for collecting debts and cracking skulls, after that."_

"That was you?" Aothor asked, unable to keep the laughter away, "Trian blamed the staff—had them all beaten and fired for stealing from the crown, hiring replacements after that was awful. And… I won't lie, I kind of wish you'd succeeded." There was steel in his voice, an edge that she'd never heard there before. There was a story there, she was sure of it. And if she had gold to bet, she'd bet it had something to do with why he came to them in the Deep Roads that day.

"What are you two talking about?" Cousland asked, bewildered.

Aothor shook his head. "It's nothing. Old things from Orzammar."

Cousland seemed like he was considering asking for more details, but Duncan motioned for their group to stop. The old Warden stared deep into the forest, brows furrowed.

"Everyone, make ready. We are nearing a group of darkspawn," he said, drawing his weapons and starting forward again.

Cousland very obviously doubted Duncan's darkspawn-sensing abilities after what had happened the other night. Liri had to admit that she found it odd, herself, but it wasn't quite enough to shake the confidence she'd build on it during their brief trip through the Deep Roads. It had always been accurate before—and just because maybe they didn't find the Archdemon didn't mean there wasn't something all Blight-ey nearby.

Her newly acquired components rattled slightly in her bag. She nearly regretted playing cards yesterday instead of taking the time to prep her special little projects. Nearly—if Cousland's constant exasperation at her obvious attempts at cheating didn't make it worth it, then his face when he caught the prince with extra cards definitely was. But the bombs probably would have been handy to have at the ready for what they were about to walk into.

"Isefel, Cousland," Duncan started without so much as a glance back at them, "Am I correct in assuming neither of you has ever faced darkspawn?" The two of them answer with a confirmation of Duncan's statement. "Mind your blades, and keep your mouth closed when you engage them, lest you wish to experience first-hand the sickness holding Mahariel."

Cousland raised a brow but nodded, looking down at his wardog. "Hear that? No biting. Even if they're evil." Lady huffed in annoyance, but otherwise seemed to understand.

Liri couldn't get over the odd intelligence the dog had, or the fact that it was large enough for her to ride like a pony. She was sorely tempted to try. Riding a mabari war hound into battle was now on her bucket list.

"_Mind your noses, too," _Liri said, the recent memories of her first encounter with the darkspawn rising in her mind. _"Let's just say they'll make you miss the sewers."_

"What, do they smell that bad?" Isefel asked, brow raised. "And here I didn't think anything could compare to the fragrance of the underbelly of Denerim."

"It's more of an acidic reek, actually," said Aothor. "Darkspawn are a living infection, and just the air around them is noticeably toxic. Large groups of the 'spawn have been known to cause front-line soldiers breathing problems. Nothing life threatening unless the actual physical taint gets into your system, but it enough to be a hazard if you're not careful."

"_Plus, I'm pretty sure they don't bathe regularly. I doubt they're bastions of hygiene."_ Liri continued, catching up a bit to match pace with Duncan so she could see what she was saying instead of just hearing it from the prince. _"Hey Commander, do darkspawn shit? Wait, do they even eat?"_

A small smile pulled at the Commander's lips. He'd been so grim ever since they found the elf girl the other day—it was nice to see him do something other than frown. "The darkspawn do eat on occasion, however it is not physical sustenance that sustains them but the taint. We suspect that when they do eat it is more to relish in the kill than for nourishment. As food is not necessary for their systems, it is unlikely that they have a way to… process it."

"What, so do they just throw it all up later?" Edmund mused, more to himself than the rest of them. "I guess that would explain the piles of weird fleshy stuff in the Deep Roads…"

She shared a confused look with Aothor before turning back to Edmund. _"Don't remember anything like that, unless I just totally missed something?"_ she was pretty sure she'd remember if she saw "weird piles of fleshy stuff."

"Oh. Ah, nope. I just read this old journal a while back about… some dwarves who went really far into the Deep Roads. Described some wild stuff down there," he said with a shrug.

"Was it an old Legion record? I thought the Shaperate held onto all of those exclusively." Aothor said, eyes narrow.

Edmund twirled his staff over in his grip. "They have a library exchange program with the Circles. Very handy way to spread information. Educational."

"I'm pretty sure that's not a thing." The prince's frown deepened.

The mage looked away abruptly. "Oh look, darkspawn!"

At first Liri thought Edmund was just trying to distract from what was apparently an uncomfortable line of questioning for him, but she looked up and a saw a group of darkspawn moving in the distance. They all readied their weapons and advanced, but Liri realized quickly that the darkspawn were actually headed away from them, and they were moving with a purpose, completely ignoring all of them.

She glanced up at Edmund and he met her eye with a sly smile, already building fire at the tip of his staff. At least they were on the same wavelength. Time to see if they could pull this off without any haywire tunnel explosions.

She pulled one of her remaining pitch grenades from her bag and wound back as Edmund gave a warning call to the others. She threw the grenade through the air and it arced forwards, striking on of the darkspawn in the back. It stumbled and the rest of the darkspawn—some dozen of them—turned and roared in their direction as the sticky pitch splattered over them.

Liri and the rest of the Wardens ducked briefly behind trees as Edmund cast a firebolt. Heat licked the air as it made contact with the intended target and the darkspawn shrieked. Upon emerging from cover a few darkspawn, the ones most covered with pitch, were already dropping to the floor. The dead leaves of the forest burned on in unison with the flames licking at the still moving darkspawn, who looked just a bit singed and really pissed off.

Liri contemplated briefly if darkspawn were capable of any emotions other than hungry rage as she moved at Duncan's side to engage them. Probably not, she decided while stabbing one in the knee so it fell low enough for her to smash it's skull in with her mace.

One of the smaller darkspawn leapt at Isefel from her blind spot. Liri started moving and yelled, trying to warn her, but instead of looking towards the genlock Isefel turned towards her instead, leaving her more exposed. Cousland was the nearest one to her, but he didn't see either, busy with a pair of hurlocks.

When the genlock's dagger was inches from Isefel's form it was suddenly blast back, repelled by a magical barrier that erupted into flames. Isefel turned wildly, face pale at how close she'd some to falling, but ended the genlock with her blades while it was still reeling and burning.

As effective as the whole fire thing was, she considered asking Edmund to maybe switch to something else—the smell of burning darkspawn was definitely not one she ever wanted to get used to. As it was, she just tried not to breathe through her nose so much. They stamped out the burning leaves that remained lest they start a forest fire.

Edmund caught up to them from where he'd been casting further back. "Well, I'll say that was a significant improvement over last time, wouldn't you?" He said to her, looking at the carnage around them.

"What happened last time?" Isefel asked. Her voice was distant as she still stared at the bodies, and spoke mostly in an effort to distract herself, likely.

"These two nearly caused a cave-in in the Deep Roads," Aothor said, shaking his head at the memory. "I was only around to witness the tail-end of it, but it was honestly spectacular."

"Yup, that's what we do. Cause spectacles and blow up darkspawn. Sometimes even all at once!"

Liri looked back to Isefel and Cousland. While Isefel could not tear her eyes from the bodies, Cousland couldn't seem to bring himself to look at them. It was better than throwing up, at least, which is what she had done her first time.

"_You alright?"_ Liri asked.

Cousland glanced over at her, taking a long breath. "I think so. Just shaken. Is it… are they always like this?"

Aothor grimaced and nodded. "It gets a bit easier with time, but you never truly get used to how monstrous they are." Liri supposed he was as credible a source as any—he and Duncan had the obvious edge when it came to actual experience fighting the darkspawn. Never thought she'd be grateful for a prince, but well, here she was.

"They are monstrous, this is true," Duncan said, whipping off his dagger of the ichorous blood, "But never forget this: they are mortal. And no matter how dangerous and inhuman they may seem, they can be killed." At his words Cousland and Isefel seemed to relax, if just the smallest amount. Even she felt a bit more confident.

"Thanks for the save, Edmund," Isefel said, shrugging as if to physically shake the nerves from her. "Guess I haven't adapted to the eye as well as I thought."

"No one expects you to adjust overnight," he reassured her. "I honestly think you're doing incredible—it's been what, two, maybe three days since what happened in Denerim? I bet given time you'll be kicking ass like normal."

"We must press on. Stay wary—I can sense more darkspawn ahead. It is as I feared; it seems they are all being drawn to the cave," said Duncan.

"_Well, that makes it convenient for us at least. Follow the darkspawn, find the cave, deal with whatever the problem is. Easy enough."_

Aothor sighed. "You do know that by saying that, you're basically dooming us to an overcomplicated and difficult experience, right? There's this little thing called irony, don't know if you've heard of it."

"_Oh please. That's only true in stories," _Liri said, rolling her eyes.

"No, he's got a point." Edmund said with nearly uncharacteristic severity. "I don't expect to find anything in those ruins but problems."

Maybe it was because of his track record, or maybe it was because she herself was a little bit crazy, but she felt herself more inclined to believe it when Edmund said more so than the others. Not that Aothor didn't have good points, but Ed had a history of being right about unusual things.

They formed back up behind Duncan, who continued to lead them through the trees. The scenery… kind of looked familiar from the other night when they'd first found the elf and the Dalish camp. But maybe that was because all the trees looked the same to her.

Duncan lead them down a slope. Hidden behind a mess of now-dead bushes was the entrance to the cave same as before. She thought she'd be thrilled to be going underground again, but she couldn't shake the odd apprehension gripping her bones. She wanted to say it was just nerves, but it was too real for that.

"Keep tight formation," Duncan said as they entered the first chamber, "These halls are narrow, and I expect we'll be dealing with darkspawn in tight quarters. Edmund, focus on frontal defensive magic, area of affect spells could damage the stability of the ruins."

"I'll take point with Duncan," Aothor said, moving to position and tightening the shield on his arm. "Cousland, you keep with Isefel and stay on her blind spot. Liri, weave in where you can around that, and maybe leave the bombs in the bag."

Liri shrugged. _"Just have the pitch, don't have any actual bombs. Yet," _she added, lest they get too comfortable.

Her hand rested on her pack, excited at the prospect of what she was going to make. The Dalish had some rare ingredients the carta rarely got a hold of, let alone allowed her to have access to. What she planned on whipping up might rival Edmund's fireballs, at least in terms of destructive capabilities. She'd probably recruit him again to help make them—his alterations to the pitch grenade were a bit irregular but definitely effective, even if they made the mixture somewhat unstable. He probably had other ideas she could pick out of his brain.

"You know, there's this old elven proverb that applies to this situation," Isefel said as they started into the hallways.

"Oh? Don't keep us in suspense," said Cousland.

"It goes like this: 'When you're traveling through a forest and you find a freaky ruin filled with darkspawn, don't go in it.'"

Edmund raised a brow, humor pulling at his face. "That's a very specific proverb. And not a very good one for Grey Wardens."

Isefel only chuckled, brushing away stray spiderwebs with her sword. Liri strongly suspected that it wasn't a real proverb and that Isefel just pulled that out of her ass, but she also didn't know much about elven culture. Could totally be a proverb, for all she knew.

"Seems that Grey Wardens make a habit of violating common sense, then." Cousland said dryly.

Edmund shrugged, twirling his staff over in his hand. "I feel like this is the kind of job you have to be just a little crazy to be any good at it."

"Well, that would match the Grey Warden's reputation. Crazy enough to do a job no one else is brave enough for, and strong enough to get it done." Aothor added.

"That's one way of putting it," said Duncan, though somewhat distantly, as if he was only half-listening to the conversation. "Though the reality is hardly as glamorous as that makes it sound."

"Hence, freaky ruin filled with darkspawn," Isefel said somewhat ruefully.

They were barely into the second hallway when they found more darkspawn. There wasn't nearly enough room to maneuver in the crowded hallways, which was both blessing and curse in that the darkspawn were no more free to move than they were. Duncan and Aothor took the brunt of the encounter from the front, but Liri was small enough to slip between them and assist.

Sometimes being tiny, even by dwarf standards, had its perks.

They found a room that very vividly reminded Liri of the time the carta storage rooms had gotten overrun by giant spiders and she and Leske were tasked with clearing it out as a punishment for back-talking Beraht. Webs covered every surface. There were massive spiders in the room, but they were at least a day dead. The recently hatched spiderlings, however, were very much alive and very, very hungry.

Liri figuratively rolled up her sleeves and moved in with the others as the spiderlings turned to them, hungry chitters filling the air. The grown but dead spiders were larger than Lady, and the hatchlings about the size of nugs. Still larger than spiders should ever be, in her opinion.

Little shits were fast, too, skirting around their blades easily. They spat sticky webs at their feet, trying to trip them up so they could climb up for a snack.

"Guys, pull back!" Edmund cried out from the rear of the party. They all looked back to see the mage gathering fire in his hands. The five of them raced through the door, spiderlings hot in pursuit. They got a lot hotter in their pursuit, because no sooner had the last of their party cleared the spance than Edmund released the fire he was holding in a wide cone, swamping the web-covered room with heat.

The flames consumed the spiderlings and latched onto the webs, coursing up the walls and even taking hold of the ceiling. For a moment Edmund simply allowed the flames to burn, taking care of the problem their blades couldn't pin down.

Cousland turned a wary eye to the mage. "Were you the reason why my home was burning when we left?"

"Maaaaaybe." Edmund drolled, waving his staff to douse the flames in the room enough that they could get through it safely.

Isefel looked between the two of them, confusion obvious on her face. "He set your home on fire? What? Why?"

"Pest control," Edmund answered simply.

Cousland ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. "Why do I even… whatever, let's just get going. To sooner we finish what we're here for, the sooner we can get out of this place. Everything about this cave is setting off alarm bells in my brain."

"Agreed," Duncan said grimly.

They found a ring of ancient bodies by an extremely ornate door. If the rest of the ruin didn't scream 'spooky and haunted and possibly evil,' this pretty much did.

Duncan glanced back at them briefly as they approached it. "I can sense the worst of it just ahead, with more darkspawn," he warned. They all took a second to prepare themselves and Duncan pressed the door open.

For the half second she could survey the room before chaos broke loose, the scene was something she could only describe as… odd. A dozen darkspawn stood encircling a massive mirror in the center of the room, a larger one with a staff in it's hand standing before it as the glass began to glow slightly.

Duncan was the first one through, sinking his blade into the nearest darkspawn before it had even turned around and deftly avoiding a strike from another as they realized he was there. The rest of them followed in after, filling the space with blades as the increasingly familiar pressure of Edmund's barriers enveloped them.

The darkspawn mage raised its staff and the air around it folded with dark energy. Duncan pressed towards it but stuttered in his step—whatever spell the emissary was casting seemed to harm whoever got close to it. Liri turned and assisted Isefel with the Hurlock she had engaged, stabbing it in the leg to create an opening for the elven woman to finish off.

She pointed with her weapons to where Duncan was struggling. Isefel didn't need words to understand what she meant—with a quick motion and a flash of steel, and a knife sailed through the air and struck the emissary through the skull. Again, Liri made a note to ask the elf to teach her that trick.

Liri turned back to the others to see how they were doing. Cousland spun like a top throughout his side of the room. She would have thought the swings of his weapon too wide and wild if she didn't notice how tightly he was controlling it's motion, not a movement wasted.

Guess the giant axe wasn't compensating for something, after all—he clearly knew what he was doing with it. His dog kept pace, circling around him deftly and charging the darkspawn and toppling them over as they backpedaled to evade the tornado that was Cousland, the two of them working together as practiced partners.

Aothor was holding off a pair of genlocks, using his shield and his sword to turn away their strikes. Liri shifted closer, swinging her mace into the first one's knee and sweeping it's legs out from under it. As it fell she cut into it with her blade, and her gave Aothor enough of an opening to swing his shield into the last genlock an knock it off balance before striking it down.

"Commander, any more in the area?" Aothor asked as the final darkspawn fell, still on high alert.

Duncan didn't answer. At first Liri worried that the emissary's spell had done something to him. But there was an intensity to his posture, and a focus in his eyes that implied his primary concern was not whatever tainted creatures might still be lurking nearby.

"This is it," he said, stepping onto the raised dias, "This is what drew the darkspawn here. I'm certain of it."

"It's certainly… creepy." Cousland said, still winded after the fight, but expression hardened and sharp as he took in the massive mirror. "I have a bad feeling about that thing."

"Liri…" Edmund asked, voice low so only she could hear him. "What do you see in the mirror?"

She looked back at the glass over her shoulder. _"Something that shiny should be reflective. But I don't see anything. Probably something magical. Weird, isn't it? There's nothing there."_

Edmund swallowed hard, focus still on the mirror. "Right. Nothing. Got it." Liri stilled, taking in the mage. He was unusually pale, knuckles white around the grip of his staff.

He didn't see nothing, not like the rest of them. He saw something. Something that had him shaken to the core.

She began to ask what he saw but he looked away from her. Everyone's focus turned as the door to the chamber opened.

She followed her steps from the day she discovered the cave. She found the tree where she and Tamlen had sat while waiting for the wolves to fall into her trap only to catch shems instead. Had they known then what it all would lead to, perhaps they'd have had the good sense to keep their noses out of it.

Harhen Paivel's words stuck again in her mind as she moved deeper into the forest for nothing more than the fact the elder was right. They'd rushed forwards without thinking, heads full of ridiculous notions of glory. They ignored the obvious signs of danger, behaving more as children then as proper hunters.

Guilt ate at her as the itch beneath her skin intensified.

"So, you found a mirror in the cave," Merrill said as they walked, "What other sorts of things did you discover?"

"An awful lot of spiders. The big kind," she said.

Fenarel shuddered. "Eugh, those are the worst. You killed them all, right?"

Rosaya shrugged, keeping her focus on the forest around them. "All the ones we came across, at least. I wouldn't be surprised if the infestation spread to other sections we didn't see, or if they had eggs buried under all the webs."

"Right. Comforting."

"There was also a large statue," Rosaya continued, glancing towards the First. "Falon'din, I think."

The First's face brightened right away, visibly interested. "Truly? Is this place a temple to him, perhaps?"

"We couldn't figure it out. There was also a little statuette of Ghilan'nain that the humans found there. I don't know why the two of those would have dedications in the same location… their domains are hardly related."

Merrill drummed her fingers against the staff in her grip, considering. "Hm… maybe this place could give us clues into our ancestors worship practices, and how they saw the Creators. What else?"

"I thought it might be a tomb… but Tamlen disagreed. The structure looked human made. " Rosaya's hand drifted to her bow, but absently without so much realizing. She couldn't pinpoint it… but she felt like… something was near.

Fenarel scoffed. "Elven artifacts in a human structure? Likely the shems were simply vulturous, taking our people's relics because they struck their fancy."

Rosaya shrugged. "Maybe." She noted in a distant part of her mind that she had an arrow rested on her bowstring. When had she done that, she wondered… but her focus was elsewhere, over the next ridge of the landscape.

The itch beneath her skin burned.

A figure crested the ridge, short and squat and covered with spiked armor. It raised a bow of it's own and fired—she shifted to the side, the arrow sailing inches from her head. Rosaya pulled back and returned in kind. Her arrow found it's mark and the creature fell. Two more emerged, charging down at them without a moment's hesitation.

Merrill brought her magic to bear, calling up roots from the earth to trip and ensnare them. They howled—the sound was eerie and evil and… familiar and haunting. Rosaya stood frozen at the sound, an ache growing in her head.

Fenarel's arrows finished off the last two. They collected themselves for a moment, looking at the monstrous creatures with varying levels of horror.

"What were those things? Were those darkspawn?" Merrill asked, daring a few steps nearer them.

"I… I don't know." Rosaya said, trying to refocus herself. Why did she feel so off? "They match the Keeper's description of them, a bit."

"I've never seen anything like them! You can smell the evil on them." Merrill knelt beside one of the corpses, a mixture of disgust and wonder on her face. They looked like durgen'len—twisted, mutated durgen'len. "Where did they come from? Did you see them here before?"

Rosaya shook her head. "I think we would have noticed. Could they have followed the Grey Warden here?"

Merrill shrugged, moving away from the corpse. "Or he followed them. But why would they come here? And why would he?"

"Well, we'll find out soon enough. Let's hope we don't find anymore of those monsters." Fenarel said, moving to collect his arrows. On an instinct, some feeling she couldn't quite explain, she grabbed his shoulder and pulled him away from the bodies. Fenarel gave her a look that was something between confusion and a glare. "What are you doing? We can't waste arrows."

Rosaya only shook her head. "Leave them. Something about those… things… makes my skin crawl. I'll make you new ones later, if you're insistent. But I don't think we should be touching those."

Rosaya began back on the trail to the cave, but Merrill caught her arm. "Before we go, are you alright? I saw it shot at you, were you hit anywhere?" she asked, looking over her form.

Rosaya bristled, pulling away roughly. "Stop fussing over me," she snapped. Merrill actually flinched back a bit. Her irritation was building—they were wasting time, why did it matter how she felt?

"You… do look a bit pale, now that Merrill's mentioned it," Fenarel said hesitantly.

Not him, too. Rosaya glared and shrugged them off, already moving further ahead. "I'm fine. Let's go—we're wasting time."

"Well… I'll keep an eye on you. You've only just recovered from your illness." Merrill said as she trailed after.

Rosaya sighed, trying to calm everything she felt stirring inside her. "Ir abelas, Merrill. I know you're just trying to help. I just… I'm worried about Tamlen. But I shouldn't be taking it out on you. I'm sorry I snapped at you."

"It's alright, lethallan. I can't even imagine what you must be feeling right now… but let's not think of that right now. We should move on." Merrill said, sounding more back to her perky self.

Rosaya continued to lead them through the woods, past the place where she and Tamlen had fought the wolves and past where the dead halla still lay.

Rosaya glanced back at the First. Merrill was one of the most optimistic people she knew, ever cheerful and seeing things on the bright side. "What do you think happened to Tamlen?"

Merrill's face immediately fell. "I dread to think of it. If he is as sick as you were…" Rosaya looked away and back to the forest. If even Merrill wasn't hoping for much on recovering their clanmate… "Even if the worst has happened, we cannot leave his body unburied."

"We're going to find him." Rosaya said, voice steel. "I know you and the Keeper and all the others doubt, but we will find him. I can feel it."

"I hope you are right, lethallan." Fenarel said softly.

Rosaya hoped so, too.

The forest air began to smell of something scorched, and it only got stronger as they moved. Not much longer they found a ring of dead creatures she assumed to be more darkspawn. This was a larger group than just the three they had encountered—nearly twelve total lied in various degrees of dismemberment on the forest floor. Nearly half of them seemed severely burned.

"This… probably wasn't here before, right?" Merrill asked, looking the scene over.

Rosaya and knelt and inspected one of the corpses. She touched the scorched earth with her fingers, letting the ashy soil fall through her fingers. "This is recent. An hour old, at the most, likely less," she said, standing and turning to the others.

"The Grey Warden said he and his fellows would be returning to the cave. Maybe they encountered these creatures as we did. In any case, this doesn't really bring us any closer to finding Tamlen, Maybe we should…" Merrill trailed off, turning in place as she surveyed the forest around them. "Wait—do you hear that?"

Rosaya brought an arrow against the bowstring but stilled halfway through the motion. Merrill wasn't talking about an approaching threat, but rather the lack of one. The lack of anything. "There aren't any birds. There isn't even any wind."

"Exactly," Merrill said, twisting her staff anxiously in her grip. "The forest is too still. Something's in the air… something unnatural." Her eyes were focused, staring out into the middle distance.

"Tamlen said the same thing in the cave." A dry feeling arose in her throat. "Correct me if I'm wrong… but all the leaves shouldn't have fallen off the trees quite yet, right?" She said, glancing up at the ominously bare branches. "We're not that far into autumn."

"The trees look like they're dying," Merrill said sadly. "Whatever was in that cave seems to be affecting the forest. The mirror afflicted you with something… maybe it unleashed some kind of sickness on the land as well. That… would not be good."

"That's an understatement," Fenarel said, giving Rosaya a wary look. "Just what did you let loose, lethallan?"

Rosaya couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze. "I wish I knew."

"The sooner we find this cave—and Tamlen—" Merrill added, mostly for Rosaya's benefit she suspected, "the sooner we can leave this forest. Take us there quickly."

They were getting close now—it wouldn't be much longer before they found it. Though the day was reaching it's peak it was still strangely dark—an odd gloom hung in the air, heavier than what was normal for overcast skies.

Periodically they came across more signs of combat, the bodies left in the wake all of the same disgusting, putrid kind and steadily increasing in their count. Rosaya tried not to look at the bodies of the monsters or stand near them, for when she did her stomach turned and the sensation beneath her skin burned.

She considered mentioning it to Merrill but decided against it. There was no masking the blatant concern in the First's eyes when she saw her looking at her, and Rosaya strongly suspected if she let Merrill know anything was amiss, she'd drag her straight back to the Keeper.

She couldn't go back. Not until she'd found Tamlen.

She found the slope leading down the cave entrance. Seven darkspawn creatures were already below, moving with purpose towards the mouth of the cave. Fenarel immediately raised a bow, but Rosaya caught his arm, stopping him.

She observed the creatures for a moment. They murmured to one another with hoarse voices that drifted up to them, the sound of it grating. There was a rhythm to it, not quite like a conversation, not quite like a song. Chanting.

What were they saying? She wanted to know so badly it burned, to understand the rhythm of it all.

Rosaya looked away from them and to the others, trying to refocus herself. Whatever this was, it was not the time or place. She was probably just out of sorts because of how worried she was. They had things to be doing.

She readied her bow and nodded for Fenarel to do the same. They struck down the first two and the rest of the darkspawn turned towards them, jagged weapons raised as they hissed and roared.

These were more the shape of shemlen, though just as grotesque and sickened as their shorter counterparts. She an Fenarel unleashed a volley of arrows into them as Merrill built up a spell. Though all their arrows found their marks, any strikes that didn't kill them immediately barely even served to slow them down. Did these creatures not feel pain? 

She and Fenarel moved back as the darkspawn got closer. Rosaya angled a shot downward and pierced the leg of the nearest one, arrow sinking through it's flesh and pinning it in place. Still it roared and swung out wildly with it's maul, nearly hitting Fenarel before the hunter had a chance to back up to a safe distance.

Merrill unleashed her and spell lightning lashed out from her staff, leaping from one darkspawn to the next in wild arcs. They wailed, then one by one dropped to the floor as the electrical energy dissipated.

With the other darkspawn they encountered on the way to this place, and the corpses likely left behind by the Grey Warden… they all indicated that the monsters were moving in this direction. Was something about this place drawing them in?

There was a similarity she felt in the wrongness of these creatures to what she had experienced in the ruins. Like attracts like, she supposed.

The interior of the cave was no less ominous in the day—if anything, it felt more wrong than ever before.

"So these are the ruins?" Merrill said, turning in place as she surveyed the ancient architecture. "Interesting. They're definitely of human origin, yet you can see elven artifacts and design scattered amongst it all." She sighed, shaking her head in puzzlement. "Nothing explains the monsters, though. We must find Tamlen—or what's left of him. I can't imagine he's still alive with those creatures about."

Rosaya's head whipped to the First, barely contained fury boiling in her heart. "Don't talk like that. You don't know."

"You're right. We should explore farther before I go on about my fears. Ir abelas," Merrill said, unable or unwilling to meet Rosaya's gaze.

Rosaya turned away from her, staring into the darkened depths of the temple. The rage in her heart turned to a dull ache, beating in rhythm with the pressure in her skull. "We can't give up hope. If we give up hope, then we have nothing left. Merrill, from here on out save as much of your magic as you can. We'll need it for Tamlen when we find him."

Merrill nodded and she began to move into the halls, only vaguely aware of the two others following her. She kept her eyes sharp on even the smallest nooks and crannies, checking behind every pillar and piece of rubble, as if by some miracle she would find Tamlen hidden behind.

They found more darkspawn corpses felled by numerous cuts, slashes, and stabs scattered here and there, the kills more recent than the ones she'd found in the forest. The Grey Wardens were nearby, likely. She found the room where she had disarmed the trap—the whole thing smelled of smoke. When she opened the door she saw that the spiderwebs had been burned away, only a few melted strands remaining to the walls and a few handfuls of charred spiderling corpses left behind.

Their way did not stay unobstructed for long, however. They found more darkspawn—the Wardens either missed them or the darkspawn arrived in the time between.

It was another cluster of the shorter variety of monster. As she and Fenarel drew back their bows the darkspawn roared, beady eyes void of anything and somehow still filled with bloodlust. One by one they fell as they charged wildly down the narrow hallway. Archers shot back at them in turn, but stopped dully in the air and fell harmlessly to the floor as Merrill erected a barrier over them.

A sensation, something slimy and dark like oil pooled over her skin. Only a few darkspawn remained now, firing at range. One of them was holding a staff, cackling darkly. A sluggishness took hold of her bones, weights placed on her eyelids. She should just… rest…

Rosaya fought back the wave of exhaustion and drew back her bow as she broke forwards through the safety of Merrill's barrier. She ducked under oncoming arrows and fired two arrows in rapid succession. The last archer fell but the caster was saved by a barrier of it's own.

Empty eyes bored through her as it hissed. Rosaya froze in place, bowstring half-drawn. For a moment she could have sworn… it was saying something.

It's focus was as enraptured with her as hers was with it, because they were both startled as a bolt of raw arcane energy sailed from Merrill to the darkspawn, striking it down while it was distracted.

"These things can use magic? I've never felt anything like that. It's aura was… gross," Merrill said, horrified and mystified in equal measure. Rosaya didn't have to be looking at the First to feel her gaze turn to her with concern. "Lethallan, are you—?"

"I'm fine," Rosaya's voice was curt, and she was painfully aware of just how Not Fine she sounded. She just wanted to get out of this damned ruin.

They came across the place where the statue of Falon'din stood. Looking at it now, it was more ominous than magnificent. Less watchful and more warning.

The corpses still lie where they fell on her last visit. She spied Tamlen's blood still staining the stone from when he had been wounded—

He had been wounded. The thought was terrible, yet it gave her incredible hope. She eyed the bloodtrail, retracing her steps through the encounter with the undead. The trail faded to a few small dribbles, presumable after she had bandaged him, but still it could give them a lead on where he had gone.

The door to the room with the mirror stood slightly ajar. Apprehensive but unable to keep herself from hoping, she pushed it open.

She froze briefly at what she saw but marched into the room with strength. Two shems, two durgen'len, and a flat-ear all turned at the sound of her steps against the stone. A third shem stands before the mirror, back to them as if studying it.

"Commander—" The durgen'len man starts, eyeing their company warily.

"I know," The oldest of the shems—he's familiar, she can't place how—turns as if he was expecting them. "So you were the ones fighting darkspawn. I thought I heard combat elsewhere." He frowned as if something was amiss. "You're the elf we found in the forest. I'm surprised you have recovered, though pleased."

Rosaya folded her arms in front of herself, holding her posture tall as she could. "If you heard rhe fighting, why didn't you help?"

"We would have, had we not been battling them ourselves. Not all the kills in this place were yours, as you can see," He says, gesturing to the room around them. At a cursory glance she can see the weapons of the shem's companions wet with blood, and it would be very difficult to ignore the darkspawn corpses strewn across the floor. "My name is Duncan, and it's a pleasure to finally meet you. The last time we spoke, you were barely conscious."

This was the shem who had rescued her. Rosaya faltered, unsure of what to say. She heard a low hum emanating from the reflectionless glass—it was making it hard to think.

Thankfully, Merrill was quick to fill the silence. "Anderan atish'an, Duncan of the Grey Wardens, and to you Edmund. I'd say the same to the rest of you, but… I'm afraid I don't know your names. Greetings, all the same. Oh, I should introduce myself, shouldn't I? I am Merrill, the Keeper's apprentice."

"And I am Fenarel," said her fellow hunter, the barb in his voice obvious. "Was it just your company that came here? Battling all those creatures?"

Duncan nodded. "Yes, though I must admit the three of you trailing behind us no doubt took much of the pressure off of us." Rosaya felt his gaze linger overlong on her in an evaluating sort of way—she didn't like it. "Your Keeper did not send you after us, did she? I told her we would be in no danger."

One of Duncan's companions, the tall shem with auburn hair, rolled his eyes and muttered something about the definitions of danger, but he was either unheard or ignored by the rest.

"We're looking for our clanmate, Tamlen," Rosaya said, refocusing on her goal and priority. She was desperate, and willing to accept aid from even humans if it gave them a chance. "Have you seen any sign of him?"

Duncan made a considering sort of sound, looking over his shoulder at the glass. "So you and your friend Tamlen both entered this cave? And you saw this mirror?"

"Yes." Rosaya nodded, stepping over the corpses and standing beside Duncan on the dias. She kep her eyes fixed on the floor, following the faint line of Tamlen's blood. It lead to the mirror, and it should have lead back down the dias… but it did not. It ended, right there in front of the mirror. Dead end. That didn't make any sense. She cast about wildly, wondering if there was something she missed, but the trail was clear.

She looked back to the shem, no longer hiding the desperation from her face. "Please, have you found any sign of him?"

"No, nor do I think I will." He placed a hand on her shoulder and pressed her away from the mirror—Rosaya blinked in surprise, unaware she'd move so close as to be but inches from it. "The Grey Wardens have seen artifacts like this mirror before; it is Tevinter in origin, used for communication. Over time, some of them simply… break. They become filled with the same taint as the darkspawn. Tamlen's touch must have released it…" Duncan sighed, shaking his head as he moved to stand between her and the mirror. "It's what made you sick—and Tamlen too, I presume."

"So it's true. I had the darkspawn sickness." There is a comfort in knowing what it was, at least. What wasn't comforting was the ominous tone in which the shemlen spoke.

The durgen'len man shook his head. "It's not the kind of thing that just goes away. It's still in your system, likely," he said. Rosaya bristled at the words. She was fine. She _had _to be.

"Yes," Duncan nodded, "And it will continue to infect others so long as the mirror exists. Your recovery is only temporary. I can sense the sickness in you, and it is spreading once again. Look inside yourself and you will see."

She wanted desperately for the Grey Warden to be wrong. She wanted to be fine, she wanted Tamlen back. But she couldn't deny the burning under her skin, the itch she could never banish, or the sudden spikes of anger that were so unlike her. "I… I don't know. Maybe there is something to what you say."

"Confirm it with your Keeper later, if you like. For now, we must deal with the mirror… it is a danger." Duncan drew his blades and raised them towards the glass.

When the glass cracked she felt something inside her break. She gasped softly, clutching at an ache in her heart. Dull whispers resounded in her mind—one of them… sounded like Tamlen's voice. What was it saying? Was she crazy?

The shards of class crashed to the earth and they all shielded their eyes as small pieces bounced off the stone and through the air.

Duncan turned to them, a grim satisfaction on his face. "It is done. Now let's leave this cursed place. I must speak to your Keeper immediately regarding your cure."

"Why not just tell me what the cure is?" She asked, arms crossed.

"It is not so simple. I would tell you more, but I must first speak with your Keeper." The human was already moving towards the exit.

"What about Tamlen?" she asked, moving to partially block his way.

"There is nothing we can do." There was a finality in his tone Rosaya simply couldn't accept. She didn't come all this way just to lose him.

"You're giving up on him?" She asked, pressing forwards, "I survived! Tamlen's strong, stronger than anyone I know. He could have survived, too, he must have!"

"Let me be very clear: there is nothing you can do for him. He's been tainted for days now, unaided. Through your Keeper's healing arts and your own willpower, you did not die. But Tamlen has no chance." Duncan began down the steps of the dias, each one echoing like a nail hammered into a coffin. "Trust me when I say that he is gone. Now, we should return."

No. Not like this. Even if he was gone… not like this. "Won't…" Her voice was weak, shamefully so. For shemlen to see her like this… "Won't there at least be a body?"

"The darkspawn would have taken it," said Duncan.

"Why would they take his body?" Fenarel demanded, only for his mind to conjure up the obvious answer. "Not to… eat it, I hope…"

Duncan shook his head. His companions began to form up around him. "Darkspawn are evil creatures, and it's best to leave it at that. I'm… sorry." He looked on her with pity. How dare he look on her with pity. Anger mixed with the pain inside her in a tangled web. "Come. Let us leave this place behind us."

The shem and his companions began making their way to the exit. Rosaya shared an uncertain look with her clanmates before turning back to the now empty frame of the mirror. There was no trace of Tamlen. It was like he'd vanished from the last spot she'd seen him.

With nothing but a hollow ache in her heart she finally admitted what she'd feared since she awoke. Tamlen was lost, and a piece of her with him.

Duncan tuned into his senses carefully as they exited the ruin. Satisfied, he turned to the others. "I sense no other darkspawn nearby, so it is safe. We will follow you back to your camp, as you know the way better than us."

"Are you sure we're good to leave the cave like this? Is it safe?" Isefel asked, looking back the way they came.

"With the mirror destroyed, I doubt the darkspawn will return. That is something, at least."

"Then could we return later to search through the ruins?" asked the First, "We could learn from many things there aside from the mirror."

Duncan shook his head. The Dalish were often willing to sacrifice much to regain pieces of their lost history, but that ruin had already proven it's price was simply too high. "The cave is not safe—everything there was exposed to the mirrors taint. If your people come here, it should be to cleanse it with fire."

The eyes of his recruits drifted towards Edmund, who seemed rather indifferent to their pointed looks. The mage seemed lost in his own thoughts again, though that was hardly an uncommon occurrence.

Their elven guides were silent on the way back, lost in their own feelings of loss and sorrow. Duncan watched Rosaya carefully—though she showed none of the outward signs of the corruption, or showed any physical indication of the taint, he could sense it afflicting her, destroying her from the inside out.

He gave instructions for his recruits to wait in the same place they had camped the night before and went on his won into the heart of the camp along with Rosaya and the Keeper's apprentice.

Keeper Marethari paced before the aravel, turning towards them expectantly as he approached alongside the elves. "I'm relieved you have returned, da'len. And I did not expect to see you again so soon, Duncan." The relief on her face quickly gave way to thinly veiled concern as she took in Rosaya's somber composure. "Dare I ask of Tamlen? What did you find of him?"

He felt the young elf's gaze shift to him, a hardness in her eyes. "The Grey Wardens says we will find nothing."

"I see. Merrill, what about the mirror? Did you bring anything back?"

The First hesitated, glancing between him and the Keeper uncertainly. Duncan stepped forwards. "I can answer that, Keeper. I destroyed the mirror."

Marethari's expression hardened as she folded her arms over herself. "I had intended to use it to find a cure for this mysterious illness. I trust you had good reason for your actions?"

"There is much to discuss, Keeper. I have learned a great deal since I was last here."

Marethari's brow furrowed, but she nodded. "Very well. Let us speak privately within my aravel then, Duncan. Merrill, warn the hunters. If there could still be darkspawn about, I want our people prepared."

The young First snapped to attention, already starting off before the Keeper had finished her order. "Ma nuvenin, Keeper, right away!"

"Da'len, allow me some time to speak with Duncan. Seek us out at my aravel later, and we will discuss your cure. Tell Harhen Paivel what has occurred. He now has the saf task of preparing a service for the dead."

Rosaya visibly bristled at the mention of a funeral, but inclined her head slightly to Marethari. "As you say, Keeper."

As Rosaya moved into the camp to do as she was instructed, Duncan went with the Keeper.

Mahariel closed the door of the aravel firmly, letting out a sigh and allowing her shoulders to slump. "I will have it from you straight, Duncan. Rosaya—how much time does she have?" she asked without turning.

"She should already be lost, even dead. I feel the taint within her nearly as powerfully as in the darkspawn—it is nothing short of miraculous that she is on her feet, that she hasn't succumbed to it," Duncan said evenly. Even still, he could hear the lingering song of the corruption beyond the walls of that aravel as the elven girl moved about the camp.

"Even after all of my healing…?" Marethari asked, slowly turning to him. Her face fell as he shook her head.

"She was not tainted by the darkspawn, as most who become afflicted are," Duncan explained. "The mirror had become corrupted. When she and her clanmate disturbed the relic, I believe that part of it latched onto her. The unique nature of her corruption, and your magic… we can assume these factors play a part in why she is holding out as strongly as she is. But it will not last."

It wasn't so uncommon for Wardens to recruit those who suffered from the affliction in an effort to save them, provided they had skills at least. But there was a nuance to this situation that intrigued him regardless.

He could not shake the lingering memory of the Archdemon's song and how loud it had been right before he found her.

Marethari turned to her tomes and flipped through them idly, as if she could come across a miracle in their pages. "So she survives for now. But what of when she is finally overwhelmed?"

"She will become a contagion, spreading the taint to all living things near her. She will become a servant of the Blight. Death is kinder before that happens, for her and for those near her," Duncan said.

The Keeper turned to him, face stone. "You cannot be telling me we must kill one of our own da'len."

"If she is to remain with the clan, then yes. It will be a mercy for her and a protection from the Blight to the rest of your people," Duncan said, shaking his head at the very thought. "But this does not need to be. Tell me of Rosaya—what skills and abilities does she possess?"

If the Keeper seemed off put by the inquiry, she did not show it. "She has been trained in the ways of the hunt and of survival since she was old enough to put one foot in front of the other. She is as skilled as any of our hunters with a bow and in navigating the wilds, but her true talent lies in both crafting and setting traps, and the art of ambush and tracking." Marethari said, leveling him with a severe look. "She is a competent huntress, this is true, but still and apprentice—she is no soldier, Duncan."

"Soldiers are not what is needed now, Marethari," Duncan said evenly. "Wardens are. Allow me to take Rosaya as a recruit. Becoming a Grey Warden is the only thing that might spare her life."

"And can I assume that this cure of yours is not something you can simply give?"

"Were it so easy as that the taint would not be nearly so dangerous. Even the cure I offer has a chance of failing, but it is her only hope and a risk we should be willing to take."

Marethari held her head with her hands. The burden of her station and the toll it took on her was evedent in that moment. "The Dread Wolf must be haunting us himself, for such misfortune to strike my people. To lose Tamlen is heartache enough for my people. To lose Rosaya, as well… I do not know if we could ever recover from our mourning." She looked back at him, a resolve in her eyes. "Take her with you, Duncan. Even if she is far from us, it is better she have a chance at life."

Duncan inclined his head in respect. "I thank you for your blessing, Keeper. Know that she is most welcome among us, and that we will treat her as one of our own."

"I will hold you to that," Marethari said, turning back to her papers and gathering a few pieces of parchment. "Here is the transcription of the ritual I used to stabilize Rosaya. I know not if it will be of further aid… but all the same I wish for you to take it. Your mage seems like the able sort—perhaps he can learn it, and use to ward off her sickness a little while longer, at least enough to keep her strong and give her a chance."

Duncan took the scrolls gently in his hands. For a Keeper to willingly part with a piece of her people's knowledge, and to give it to humans of all things… she was showing the trust she had in them, the firm belief that he would look after her clanmate. "Thank you, Marethari. We will not let Rosaya fall without giving her a fighting chance."

He rose and began to move for the door but halted at soft words from the Keeper. "Duncan… be careful with her. She is strong and brave, but her heart is gentle. The loss of Tamlen may claim her surely as the Blight."

It was dumb. He was _being_ dumb, and probably reckless.

But he couldn't help himself. While the others were busy discussing the ruins, darkspawn, and magical mirror, Edmund peeled away from them and began making his way along the edge of the camp, fully intending on finding his way back to the cave.

He was just puzzling out how he'd find it again when he spotted a familiar dark-haired elven woman creep away from the aravels and move into the trees.

Merrill. She was returning to the Eluvian.

He followed after her through the trees, keeping enough of a distance to remain unnoticed by the elven mage. In Dragon Age 2 she'd always been so awkward and out of her element. But watching her navigate the forest with ease gave him insight to a piece of her that was never present in the games.

Merrill was Dalish, and Merrill was a part of the wild. Here she was more in her element than he'd ever seen.

Though he'd spent most of yesterday with Merrill they exchanged barely more than a handful of words with one another, as Marethari kept them focused rigidly on tending to Mahariel. He couldn't quite remember what the game models from Origins looked like, but the real-life Merrill and Marethari closely resembled their models from the second game.

It was something that surprised him every time—the first time he'd seen Jowan and Lily, the first time he'd laid eyes on Duncan… it was all so familiar and foreign at the same time. He'd gotten used to it overtime, but every time he encountered a familiar character the sensation resurfaced. He'd probably be feeling it a lot in the coming days, he suspected.

He'd thought about what he might say to her, if they ever got a chance to talk, but he found himself painfully divided. He could try and keep her from pursuing the Eluvians, from dabbling in blood magic. But if he did that, her clan would have no reason to send her with Hawke. It was a flip of the coin there on whether that would be better or worse, depending on what type of person Hawke was.

Part of him didn't want to stop her. He always believed that this was Merrill's choice to make regarding a piece of history that belonged to her people. Maybe if she was just given a better idea of what she was getting into she could make more informed decisions, or more options that didn't involve demons…?

Though, he was hardly one to judge in that department, what with Pride and now Isolation lurking in his dreams. The pot calling the kettle black, and all that.

Without darkspawn slowing them on the way and having the advantage of following an elf who knew how to find her way back, Edmund made much faster time through the forest than the earlier endeavor that morning.

It occurred to him that the others might wonder where he'd gone to so suddenly, or even get worried. He'd make up some bullshit excuse later—he needed to get back to the Eluvian. He couldn't leave it alone, even if it was destroyed, not after what he'd seen in the glass.

What he saw had been blurry and distant, but he could have sworn…

He recalled so clearly the moment when Duncan had raised his blades against the mirror. It had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed not to stop him from destroying it. The only reason he managed was because he saw first-hand how close Rosaya had come to death at it's power. Hell, he knew she'd pull through because Mahariel always did in the game, but even he had doubts at times if she'd wake up.

Everyone was safer for it's breaking.

Still, if there was something to be recovered…

Unanswered questions boiled over in his brain. If a piece of the Eluvian could answer any of them, or at least show him where to look, then it would be worth it. Morrigan said that Eluvians could lead "beyond Thedas." Before he'd always assumed that she meant undiscovered parts of the planet the maps didn't cover yet, but now he couldn't help but wonder…

Edmund shook the thoughts from his head, not willing to bring himself to hope until he had proof.

Merrill disappeared into the cave. He waited a moment before following her, hesitating at the entrance. Going in meant he would be changing the story. How exactly he was changing it he hadn't puzzled out yet. Still, something about it gave him pause.

The only effective change he'd made so far was saving Oriana and Oren. He hoped he'd helped change the fate of Shianni and the others, but he'd hesitated to ask Isefel for more details on what had happened inside the castle. After all, there were only so many ways to tactfully ask "Hey did your cousin actually get raped by that racist pig?" As far as Isefel was concerned, it probably wasn't any of his business knowing anyways.

Not wanting Merrill to get too far ahead of him, he stepped into the cave and let the odd sensation of the ruin fall over him. It wasn't just the taint in the air that felt off, though that was probably part of it. There was a quality to the pressure of the Fade here'd never felt anywhere else.

In the tower, the Veil was thin like a silk blanket due to the constant pull of magic by the mages and the frequent Harrowings, supple and easily pulled upon. In the Deep Roads the Veil had been more of a wall, unyielding and further away with only small amounts of power leaking through cracks in both the metaphorical and physical stone. But here in this ruin…

It was thin like in the tower but as tight as it was in the deeps, like tissue paper pulled taught. The brittleness of it made him uneasy, like if something pressed too hard against the barrier it might shatter around him as fragile as the glass Duncan had broken.

He hadn't mentioned anything about it to the others on their first trip into the ruins. He probably only noticed it because he was a "mage," and he honestly didn't want to think too much about what the implications of it all could be. Even after playing Trespasser there were still mysteries about this particular ruin. He used to chalk it up as inconsistencies in the game lore, and it didn't bother him all that much… but actually standing here gave him the idea that there was more to this particular place than met the eye.

Given that everything in the ruin was freshly dead and no more darkspawn were being pulled there, nothing slowed him as he retraced his steps through the halls. Merrill was in the mirror's chamber already, fingers glowing with soft light as she held them inches over the broken glass on the floor.

"Careful with that," he said, his voice breaking the silence of the ruin. Merrill spun around, staff held out and poised for combat. "It's broken, but I'm willing to bet those shards are still tainted. Not to mention pointy."

Merrill jolted, springing to her feet and holding her staff outwards. She stared at him for a moment, as if she couldn't be sure he was really there. "What are you doing here?"

Edmund shrugged, stepping fully into the room. "Same thing as you, I imagine."

Merrill looked between him and the shattered pieces of glass littering the ground, grip tightening on her staff though her posture relaxed. "That shem—Duncan—he had no right. To destroy this. Even if this mirror was from the Tevinters, we still could have learned from it, found a way to save Rosaya—"

"It's elven," Edmund said. Merrill blinked at him, like she didn't quite hear what he'd said. "I don't think you need me to tell you this, but a lot of ancient Tevinter artifacts are stolen and repurposed from the time of Elvhenan," he said, gesturing to the frame of the mirror. "This whole ruin is a prime example of that."

Merrill's face fell as she took in his words. "So this… this was an artifact of my people. Something of our past. And now… it's gone."

"You came here to take a piece," Edmund said, purely a statement free of accusation. Yet still Merrill looked as if she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"Yes," Merrill said. "It is a Keeper's job to remember, to preserve history and culture. When Marethari is gone the task will fall to me. This, all of this…" She turned in place, gesturing to the glass glinting on the ground. She looked back to him, resolve strong in her eyes. "I was meant to restore this for my people. I can feel it."

Edmund considered her words, moving further into the room. He thought of the labyrinth of mirrors in Trespasser, the expansive possibilities of the magic they possessed. There was so much he didn't understand about them, even after the dlc, and the implications only made him more curious, regardless of what he'd seen in the glass earlier.

It… it couldn't hurt to have an Eluvian expert on hand, in the future.

"I'm not here to talk you out of this. I'm here to help."

"You're a human." Merrill said, shaking her head. "Why would you care about this?"

"That's a fair assessment, I suppose," Edmund said with a shrug, "Right now Duncan is discussing Rosaya's cure with the Keeper, and Rosaya can only get that cure if she leaves the clan for good and travels with us. I want to help her. I have a better chance of doing that if I can understand the thing that afflicted her."

And he needed to confirm a few suspicions of his own. He pulled a piece of scarp cloth from his back and gingerly lifted a shard from the ground. He could see something reflected in it distantly—a shadowed shape, blurred and indefinable.

Merrill visibly hesitated, the mention of her clanmate giving her pause. "I… I suppose two working on this problem is bound to yield better results than the one. Your experience with other types of magic and different training with the Circles might make for an interesting point of view on the matter, at least." She turned to the room, gesturing to it at large. "So what do you make of all this?"

"Duncan said the Tevinters used them for communication," Edmund started, still weighing out how much to tell her. It was probably better for her to be informed, in the long run. "He was partially right. But the humans never unlocked their full potential. They can do more than let you talk to people over great distances. They're doors."

Merrill blinked at him, then slowly looked to the dias where the frame still stood. "Doors…? How do you know this?"

Thank God for the Witch Hunt dlc. "There was a book in the tower, it mentioned the Eluvians. There weren't a lot of details, but from what it said I could gather from context that they were used for transportation. Take that for what you will."

"If they're doors, then where do they go? How do they—" Merrill broke herself off, suddenly pale in the face. "Tamlen… oh Creators… did Tamlen go through it?"

Edmund moved to the dias, eyes trailing along the intricate inscriptions on the frame. "I don't know," he said honestly. "It's possible." There was a strange solace in that—even if he'd stayed behind on the night they found Rosaya to search for him, they probably wouldn't have found anything without going in after him.

Merrill stood at his side, resolve crossing her face. "Then we have to fix it. We have to fix it, then go after him. I owe that much to Rosaya, at least."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Edmund said slowly. "Fixing this thing means basically building a new one from scratch, and that could take months, years even. Tamlen will be beyond hope by then, if he isn't already. Besides… where this goes, I don't think we want to follow." He remembered Tamlen's description of what he saw in the mirror, clear as day_. "I can see… some kind of city… underground? And… there's a great blackness…"_ He didn't like what that could mean.

Eluvians were all supposed to meet at the Crossroads. "Supposed to," being the key phrase. He already knew because of Kieran that with enough power the Eluvians could be pointed to different locations, like the Fade. And in the Fade, ever floating in the sky… was the Black City. He didn't have any confirmation that this Eluvian lead there, but the chance was very real.

Or maybe not even that, maybe it was someplace else in the Deep Roads. Tamlen did say it was underground after all, maybe he saw a lost dwarven thaig. Maybe… maybe he saw where the Archdemon was. That concept was just as ominous as the Black City theory, honestly.

Edmund shook the theories and thoughts from his mind, trying to focus on what was in front of him. He couldn't read the inscriptions on the frame—hell, he still couldn't read Common, let alone ancient elven—but fortunately there was someone nearby who could. "This might give us some idea on what we're dealing with," He said, tapping the frame and glancing back at the First.

She also pulled herself from whatever dark thoughts held her, scanning the writing. "They're not words… they're runes. Hold on a moment," Merrill raised a hand and blueish green flames lit up at her fingers. Veilfire. Edmund mentally kicked himself—why hadn't he thought of that?

"How do you…?" He held up his hands, allowing the question to finish itself.

"It is not fire you call, but the memory of it. Do not feed it with your mana, but rather the rawness of the lingering Veil," Merrill said evenly.

Edmund stilled himself and concentrated. He was good at fire, at least, so this shouldn't be a problem. Did Veilfire still count as fire even if it wasn't really fire? The memory of flame, the history of it's glow…

Sparks like the kick from a lighter danced at his fingers. He tied his energy with the close press of the brittle Veil and a soft glow of teal fire danced in his hand, pulsing like a heartbeat. Together they pressed the Veilfire to the runes and they lit up, glowing brightly.

Merrill gasped and Edmund felt a flash of pain at the back of his skull—images flooded his brain, of blades and elves in dark armor, raging and roaring, vallaslin painted on their faces like blood. Directions flooded along with them, but disjoined and nonsensical like a jigsaw puzzle put together incorrectly. Then… humans? Tinkering and toying, but breaking with every touch. Everything felt broken and disconnected. He didn't know how to piece together what he was seeing.

Before the vision blurred beyond hope, he saw the distinct form of a dragon.

It all stopped abruptly as Merrill pulled away. "That was… what was that…?" Merrill gasped, looking around as if to re-orient herself.

"I… have no idea." Edmund said, clenching his hands to extinguish the Veilfire, more honest than he'd ever been since waking up in Thedas. "That didn't make any sense."

"Veilfire can sometimes hold instructions or memories… but I've never experienced anything like that," she said, looking back to it with renewed wonder. "Was it the history of the mirror? Recording what it was used for, maybe?"

"Whatever it was meant to say… I don't think we're going to be able to piece it out," he said, shaking his head. "I think that even before Duncan broken it's records were damaged. The taint seems to have scrambled everything together, and it only got worse after it shattered"

"So if we purify the shards, we could find a way to cure Mahariel, and maybe put together the missing pieces of the message from the runes," Merrill said, eyes lighting up in excitement. "Now all that's left is to figure out how to actually do that…"

Edmund bit down on his tongue for a moment, considering what to tell her. He sighed after a moment, turning to face her—better she hear it from him than running to a demon. "The only thing that might cleanse it is blood magic."

Merrill nodded. There was no hesitation about her, only pure determination. "I see. So how do we draw it out? There's likely a method to the extraction, a ritual of sorts that could work."

"I'm not sure, blood magic isn't exactly something I'm practiced at, and the Blight is known for being pretty persistent—" Edmund cut himself off, struck by a sudden realization.

"What? What is it?" Merrill asked.

He looked down at the shards on the ground, trying to piece out his thoughts. "It's alive. Merrill, the Eluvians are alive."

Merrill gaped at him, more surprised than doubtful. "Alright, now you've lost me."

Edmund hurriedly took a piece of scrap cloth out of his bag, bending and picking up a shard of glass carefully so it didn't touch his skin. "The Blight, Merrill, what does the Blight infect?" he asked. He didn't wait long enough for the First to form an answer before containing on, unable to control his train of thought. "Inanimate objects and carry the Blight like a germ, stone and metal and so forth, and it can go away eventually. But only living material can actually get infected like this. Animals, plants, people, lyrium—"

"Lyrium? What are you talking about?"

"—regardless of _how _the Eluvian got corrupted, the fact remains that the Eluvians _can be corrupted._" They could be corrupted, and they could be cleansed.

He focused on the Dalish mage, who was looking increasingly bewildered and concerned. Somehow, Merrill would find a way to cure the mirror of the Blight. Purifying inorganic matter was one thing—that was something he knew could be done with enough fire and effort—but to heal a living thing? That was something that had never been done, outside of one particular Grey Warden mage.

The implications of that were extraordinary. This could be the first step to curing the Blight from people, as well. What were the Eluvians made of, anyways? Magically treated lyrium? That could explain the ancient conflict between the dwarves and the elves, if they were after the lyrium to make more mirrors. Maybe he was wrong, maybe he was leaping to conclusions and grasping at straws—but this had the potential to change everything if he was right. _Merrill_ had the potential to change everything.

Edmund held the shard out to her, gesturing for her to take it. "I'm going to leave this to you, Merrill. I believe in you—you can solve the riddle of this mirror."

Merrill blinked at him, utterly taken aback. He couldn't help but wonder if this was the first time someone told her they believed in her. "I… I don't know if I really understand. But I'll try. For Rosaya and Tamlen, and for my people," she said, taking it gingerly and placing it in her bag. "What about you?"

"I can't do blood magic. I'd probably die if I did," Edmund said, shaking his head. "And blood magic is what it's going to take to fix it."

"Blood magic is dangerous, certainly, but it doesn't kill you if you're careful."

"I have a condition. It's complicated and annoying." He shrugged, taking out another piece of cloth and lifting another shard from the floor. He held it close to his face, the reflection coming into focus from it's previously blurry and hazy state as he stared into it. Brown eyes stared back at him.

Edmund Amell's eyes were bright blue. His eyes—his _real_ eyes—were brown.

"Are… are you alright?"

He blinked himself back to reality at the worriedness in Merrill's voice. Vaguely, he was aware that he was shaking. "I'm fine. A bit overwhelmed by everything, but I'm fine," He said, folding the cloth over the shard and slipping it into his journal like a bookmark. He could inspect it more later when he was alone. "Do what you can with your shard. I'll work on it too—maybe see if there aren't any Grey Warden secrets I can unearth that'll help figure all this out."

They two of them made for the door, ready to leave this place behind.

"It's strange, but I wish you weren't leaving right away. Working on this alone will be difficult," Merrill said regretfully. "And I doubt the Keeper will be enthusiastic about it. She's always been overly cautious, and we don't always see eye-to-eye on things."

Edmund drummed his fingers against the shaft of his staff, considering. It would take some doing, and he was going to need to prioritize learning how to read and write… "You know, if you ever meet a dwarf by the name of Varric Tethras, you can send a letter to me through him. He'll know how to reach me." Hopefully anyways. He'd have to establish his own line of communication with the dwarf first, which was something he wanted to do regardless. "We could be pen-pals, update each other on how the project is going, all that kind of stuff."

"How am I supposed to even find this dwarf?" Merrill asked. 

"He'll find you, I'm sure. And even if the pen-pal thing doesn't work out, I think you'll still find people willing to help you. You're never as alone as you might feel. Just…" Edmund trailed off for a moment, unsure how to continue. "I don't know anything else about the kind of spells it's going to take to cleanse and rebuild that thing. If you find yourself needing to make deals with a demon to get it done, just make sure you have a contingency plan to deal with it. Okay?"

Merrill rolled her eyes. "I'm no silly da'len who'll fall to the first demon to make an offer, you know. I'm perfectly capable of handling myself."

"I don't doubt that. But for the people you care about… just make sure you're taking steps to keep them safe, so that your choices don't have to haunt them. That's all I'm asking."

"You say that like you're speaking from experience," she said, wary observation on her face.

Edmund shrugged. "I just know that pride's a bitch," he said, fully aware she caught the double meaning of his words. "Don't let it sink it's teeth into you, and don't sacrifice things that aren't yours to get what you want. I'm not trying to tell you what to do, I just… I get worried easily. Take my advice for what you will."

"I appreciate that you mean well. I'll think on it." Merrill made a non-committal sort of sound. "You know, I was wary of you because you're a human… but you're not actually that bad, are you? I'm sorry if I've been unbearably awkward about all this… it's been a rough few days. But you've been very polite, and kind to help."

"You've been great, don't worry about it," Edmund said, unable to keep away a bit of a smile. It was so bizarre—he'd done Merrill's romance path from the game once or twice, and while she was never his favorite character, he enjoyed her quirky and upbeat nature. Reconciling everything he knew about her to the real person walking next to him was… odd.

He'd have to get used to it. This was going to become a lot more common once they joined up with Alistair, Morrigan, and the rest of the companions.

God, what was he going to do about all that? He knew everything about all of them. There was going to be an obvious imbalance. He could just pretend he was ignorant, cycle through the "dialogue options" that would net him the most approval… but was that fair? Or was it weirdly manipulative?

Edmund decided he would post-pone that particular moral dilemma for another time. He had plenty of dilemmas to deal with, already. Probably enough for a lifetime.

Edmund turned back to the cave as they cleared the exit. Whoever went on the Witch Hunt endeavor was going to end up coming back here. He couldn't say if he'd be the one to do it, or maybe one of the others…

He pressed his hand to the journal where he'd tucked the glass. He already had a shard. He glanced to Merrill. "Duncan said this place should probably get burned out. I'll leave that call to you—this is a place of your people, not mine."

Merrill looked back, taking a long breath. "I think we've gleaned all we can from this place. There's nothing left for us here." Merrill struck the butt of her staff into the ground, calling up flames that swirled around it. "Shall we?"

Together they turned and cast forwards a wave of flame into the mouth of the cave, controlled enough not to spread out of it's mouth for wild enough to spread further in. They lingered for a moment, watching the burn. The stone cracked and popped from the heat, a hiss rising up from the earth. The fire took hold of the roots protruding from all the walls—hopefully the flames would burn along them to the center of the temple.

Merrill raised her arms into the air, calling up a barrier of stone over the entrance earth-bender style to block the fire from leaping out to the forest. As far as controlled burns went, this one wasn't the most hazardous he'd seen, especially in recent days.

He and Merrill practically raced back to the Dalish camp, though he suspected she was slowing herself significantly on his account. Even with his shoulder mostly healed now he was still no match for a Dalish elf in terms of maneuverability through the woods.

"It looks like everyone's gathering up," Merrill said as they got within sight of the camp, a frown on her face. "What's going on?"

"Go to your people," Edmund said, waving her off. "I'll see you, Merrill. Good luck with… with everything."

She nodded to him. "Ma serannas. Thank you for everything, I won't forget this," she said, then took off without another moment of hesitation.

He found the rest of his companions, sans Duncan, still in the place the Dalish had designated for him.

"Where have you been?" Cousland asked as he approached his fellow recruits, arms crossed over himself.

Edmund sighed but tried not to let his annoyance show. "Duncan mentioned the ruin should be cleansed with fire. I figured I'd go ahead and take care of that."

Liri looked positively devastated. _"You set stuff on fire? Without me?" _

"It was a last minute thing; forgot to mention it to anyone else before I left," he said, "Don't worry, next time I decide to burn some ancient ruins, you'll be the first one I run to." Edmund couldn't keep the smile off his face.

Liri held her hand over her heart briefly in mock-heartache. _"It's too late, I am inconsolable. I shall never recover from this slight, from this monumental insult to my destructive abilities. Just because I don't have magic doesn't mean that I'm not capable of excessive damage to property!"_

Aothor quirked a brow at her words. "No one's questioning your ability to wreck shit, but when you talk about it like that I'm actually a little worried about what you can do."

"_With enough preparation, ingredients, and elbow grease, there isn't anything too impossible," _she said with a mischievous grin.

Cousland pressed his fingers to his temple as if he had a headache. "Maker, give me patience…"

"We should probably get ready to move," Isefel said, looking past the group. "I'm guessing we won't be here for much longer."

Edmund followed the direction of her gaze to see Duncan leaving the camp, with a stone-faced Rosaya walking at his side, the Dalish of the clan forming a path for them as they all sang a solemn song of farewell.

This was it, the end of the origin.

She didn't make it far from the aravel when she spotted Ashalle, who practically threw aside her leatherworking as she rushed over.

"By the Creators, it is so good to see you whole and well. I was so worried!" Ashalle said, pulling Rosaya into an embrace. Rosaya let herself lean into it for a moment, finding comfort in her caretaker.

"You really shouldn't worry so much for me, Ashalle. I'm hardly a little da'len anymore." Something no one in the camp seemed to realize aside from herself, apparently.

Ashalle shook her head, pulling back slightly and cupping Rosaya's face with her hands. "I can't help it, dear. I've raised you since your poor mother died. I have never been so relieved as when I heard you would pull through, nor so fretful as when the Keeper said she'd sent you back into those woods! What happened? Everyone says Tamlen may be dead."

Rosaya hung her head. She'd failed; she didn't find him. But she also hadn't found his body. "He's missing. That's all we know right now."

"That's awful. I know how much you and the lad care for each other. It was always my hope that you two…" Ashalle trailed off, a small but melancholy smile on her face. Rosaya couldn't keep from flushing, the color spreading to her ears, nor could she shake away the pain stabbing at her heart. "Well, let's not dwell on it. You must be more careful. Your mother and father, may they rest in peace, would be horrified to see you take such risks."

She couldn't bear to think of Tamlen anymore, of what could have happened to him. "You've never spoken of my parents this much, Ashalle," she asked, switching the topic away from their lost clanmate. She wondered why the topic of her parents had come up so suddenly with Ashalle—perhaps because she was afraid of losing her as she had lost them?

"What happened to them is a sad tale, and it's in the past. Reopening old wounds benefits no one, da'len, especially in times like these." Ashalle pulled back, immediately distancing herself as Rosaya tried to open the line of conversation.

Da'len. Da'len, da'len, always da'len, even to Ashalle. She wondered if they even knew she had a name. The irritation at it grated at her more than normal—she tried to bury it back. "But don't we Dalish strive to learn of our past? Even if it's painful?" she asked, standing her ground.

Ashalle sighed, her expression softening. "True. Perhaps you're old enough to hear this, though it… hardly seems like the right time."

"Is there ever a good time?"

"Very well. If I do not tell you now, you'll only wonder," Ashalle said, taking a moment to collect herself. "Your mother was a hunter—one of the finest. And your father was the Keeper before Marethari. He was with us for a very long time. Your mother was from another clan, and her elders did not approve of the match. She and your father had to meet in secret. One day, bandits caught them alone in the forest. Your father was killed, but your mother escaped."

Her father was a Keeper? There was magic in her blood, then. Marethari had been First to her father, as Merrill was to her. That at least was something she would have expected the others to have mentioned. "I'd always assumed they died together."

"Your mother held to life long enough to give birth to you, but grief wracked her heart," Ashalle said, shaking her head at the thought. "One night, she… she simply walked into the moonlight and never returned."

"My mother abandoned me?"

"She just… couldn't carry on without your father," said Ashalle. "The clan decided not to discuss this around you. You are a gentle soul Rosaya, with a rare and kind heart. We did not want to poison you with sadness."

"I just… I can't believe I've never heard this tale before. That no one told me."

"Our people have learned to live with much sorrow; it seemed only right that we not dwell on it." Ashalle reached out, absently braiding Rosaya's hair the way she did since she was just a girl. "Your mother did leave you a gift. Something of your fathers for you to have once you were older. I planned on giving it to you once you earned your vallaslin, but perhaps the time has come… take this key. You'll see some chests behind the storage aravel by the halla pen. One of them was your mothers—a small white one. It's contents are yours, if you wish."

Rosaya clutched the key to her heart—it was aged and worn, but a piece of her own past. "What were their names? My parents," she asked softly.

Somehow Ashalle seemed startled at the question, as if she didn't realize she'd never told Rosaya even that. "Your mother was Latharis, huntress of Clan Alerion, and your father Sounen Mahariel, Keeper of Clan Sabrae." The names were as foreign to her as those of strangers, yet these strangers were part of her story. Ashalle leaned in close, planting a kiss on her forehead. "Yours is a legacy of love and strength, Rosaya. Never forget that, or the promise by which you were born. _I'lath a i'souneth, ash rosa esaya._"

A calmness she had not felt since waking in the Keeper's aravel washed over her. She pulled Ashalle close, embracing her once again. It felt like a goodbye—why did it feel like a goodbye?

She made her way to the storage crates. There were only a few chests that the key could fit, chests that held belongings of fallen clanmates. She tried not to think of which of them Tamlen's things would be sorted into.

The key clicked and opened small box no larger than her hand. Inside it was s necklace made up of hundreds of wooden beads, each carved into the shape of an animal. Deer, hawks, wolves, and rabbits chased each other across it's length. She pulled it from it's case and crossed the necklace over her wrist, chording it like a bracelet.

She turned back to the camp—from here she could see Harhen Paivel, by the main fire where he always stood. Hesitant steps drew her nearer to him, hardly eager for the "I told you so," lecture that was sure to follow her failure to find Tamlen.

But to her surprise, there was only gentleness in his eyes as he looked her over. "So, you return with the Grey Warden, but without Tamlen. What happened, da'len? Is he truly lost to us?"

Grief bubbled up inside her, welling up in the face of unexpected gentleness. "It's my fault," she said, voice barely above a whisper, "I failed the clan."

Harhen Paivel shook his head somberly. "You've done nothing of the sort, da'len. Do not blame yourself." He turned to the fire, heavy sorrow in his eyes as he looked into the overcast skies. "It seems the will of the Creators that I sing the dirge for those I held in my arms as babes. I think I know why our immortal ancestors would sleep." The elder held his arms out as if in offering. "Swiftly do the stars burn a path across the sky, hast'ning to place one last kiss upon your eye. Tenderly land enfolds you in slumber, softening the rolling thunder," his voice choked up and the elder paused a moment to try and compose himself.

"Dagger, now sheathed," Rosaya continued, unprompted, "Bow no longer tense. During this, your last hour, only silence."

They stood there in the quiet, and even the trees seemed to be attending in vigil. She wasn't sure how long she stared into the fire—it could have been no more than a moment, or longer than an eternity.

She raised a hand to her cheek after a while and felt tears. When had she started crying? She couldn't recall. Taking a deep breath she brushed them away, turning back to the elder. "It's been forever since I heard you recite that poem. Not since Harhen Lukara passed." Her voice sounded quiet and distant from her, like she was listening to someone else speak.

"Yet you still remember it well," he said with a laugh. "Of all the da'len I have taught over my years, you might have been the sharpest of all of them, so quick to learn even outside of your lessons. I know I push you, but it is because I see—as we all see—that you have the potential for greatness inside you."

There was something inside her, certainly. It did not feel like greatness.

"This poem was meant to be recited durring a beautiful time, when our ancestors celebrated their long lives before passing into uthenera. A tribute to memory and joy," Harhen Paivel sighed, prodding the fire with a rod to help it breathe. "Alas, we have no such ceremonies these days."

"Will you prepare a service for Tamlen, please?"

Paivel nodded. "Of course. We've no body to return to the soil, but we shall still sing for Tamlen. The Creators must come to guide him to the Beyond. Tell the Keeper it shall be done before the clan is ready to move on."

Rosaya turned away from the fire. Even if Tamlen wasn't dead… even if he was out there somewhere, they would still sing for his peace and for his homecoming. That would have to be enough.

"I ask only one thing, if I may," the elder said as she started to move away. "This… Grey Warden. You have met him now, yes? Is he a good man?"

Rosaya paused, rocking in place. Was he? How was she to know? He was a human—none of them were good. Still… "He saved my life, and the Keeper regards him as a friend of the clan. Beyond that… I cannot truly tell."

Paivel tapped a finger against his chin in thought. "Interesting. What is it he talks to the Keeper about, I wonder…? Perhaps you should go and ask. May the gods guide your path, da'len."

She did not feel very guided as she made her way back to the Keeper's aravel.

As she approached Duncan and Keeper Marethari exited the aravel, apparently just finished with whatever conversation they were having.

"Your Keeper and I have spoken, and we've come to an arrangement that concerns you," said the shem. "My order is in need of help. You are in need of a cure. When I leave, I hope you will join me. You would make an excellent Grey Warden."

She crossed her arms. What did one of those things have to do with the other? "What about my cure means I have to join the Grey Wardens?"

"Everything, I'm afraid," Duncan said. "The darkspawn taint courses through your veins. That you've recovered at all is remarkable. But eventually the taint will weaken and kill you, or worse. The Grey Wardens can prevent that, but it means joining us."

"Can't you just give me the cure?" It would be a lot simpler if he could just do that.

Duncan shook his head. "The cure is only found by joining the Grey Wardens. As sole protectors against the darkspawn, we're granted some… immunity to the taint," he said. Rosaya narrowed her eyes at the human. He was cherry-picking his words—there was more to it than that, obviously. "But this is not charity. We only enlist the worthy, and you have certainly proven yourself. Should you join, it is likely you will never return to your clan."

Rosaya gaped at him. Surely this was a joke? The turned to her Keeper desperately looking for the tell-tale twinkle in her eye that would say this was just something to get her riled up, and that everything was fine after all.

"Is the clan sending me away?" It couldn't be. Hope of this being a jest died when she saw the somber expression on Marethari's face.

"A great army of darkspawn gathers in the south. A new Blight threatens the land. We cannot outrun this storm. Long ago, the Dalish agreed to aid the Grey Wardens against a Blight, should that day ever arrive. We must honor that agreement."

Perhaps she had asked the wrong question. "Are _you_ sending me away, Keeper?"

Marethari let out a long sigh, one that seemed to only take part of a burden with it. "It breaks my heart to send you away. As it would to watch you die slowly from this illness. This is your duty, and your salvation."

"This can't be the only way. There has to be something else! Keeper, are you sure?" She couldn't leave the clan. It was all she'd ever known, the life surrounded by aravels, halla, and old stories from legend.

A wry but sad smile pulled at the Keeper's face. "Who knows what the future holds? Here our paths diverge. You may never find us again. I cannot express my sadness at sending one of our daughters into such danger, away from the clan that loves her." Marethari reached out, raising Rosaya's chin with a finger. "But if this is what the Creators indented for you, da'len, meet your destiny with your head held high. No matter where you go, you are Dalish. Never forget that."

Rosaya reached up and grabbed onto the Keepers hand with her own. As much as it felt she was being cast away… perhaps this was for the best.

As the initial shock of her words wore off, Rosaya found she could understand her mothers choice to simply leave. She looked about the camp—everywhere she saw traces of Tamlen. The aravel he shared with his cousins, his favorite halla, all the little trinkets and tokens he carved littered about the camp. If she stayed, the grief might drive her mad. She wanted to walk away from it all, from all the reminders that brought back the pain.

Once again her skin itched terribly, and a rhythmic headache beat in the back of her brain.

"If this is what the Creators have planned for me… I will go. I will stop the darkspawn, the creatures that stole Tamlen from us, before they can take any more of our people." It would not bring him back. But at least she could do her part to protect others.

Duncan crossed his arms and bowed to her—a formal salute, of some kind? "I welcome you to the order. It is rare to have a Dalish amongst us, but your people have always served with distinction."

"I know you'll do your clan proud, da'len," Marethari hesitated for a moment, looking her over as if trying to memorise her. She began to twist off a ring from her finger. "Take this ring. It is your heritage—enchanted by your father, the Keeper before me. It will help protect you against the darkness you will face."

Rosaya gently turned the ring over in her hand—silverite, embedded with small purple gems that matched her eyes. She wondered for a moment if her fathers eyes looked like hers, or if that was something she'd gotten from her mother. She felt a warmth from it as she slipped it on—the ever present itching eased, if just a bit.

"A valuable gift," Duncan said as he watched their exchange. "So… are you ready to go?"

"I'm staying for Tamlen's funeral." This, at least, she would not budge on. She deserved to sing him off with the rest of her clan—even if Tamlen always said her singing voice sounded more like a stuck pig than a lark.

Duncan hesitated, but something in his expression softened. Or at least, she thought it did—it was hard to tell through all that fur on his face. "We have much ground to cover and not much time… but I cannot deny you that. Say your farewells, then we must be off."

Marethari took her by the shoulder, walking with her to the main fire where the rest of the clan was already beginning to gather. "Come then, da'len. Before the Creators guide you from us, let your clan embrace you one last time."

She joined the clan around the fire Harhen Paivel began leading them in the song for the departed, the mourning chant of their people. Tamlen's cousins and blood family beckoned for her and she stood with them, leaning on one another as they sang together. Had fate taken a different turn, she would have joined them as a sister through Tamlen.

Now… she was to leave and live as a stranger to her own people, without even markings to identify her to the world as one of the Dalish. It was all wrong, but there was not time for anything more.

She was vaguely aware of Merrill moving to her side, from wherever she had been before, pulling her into an embrace as the song ended. "You told me not to give up hope, lethallan," Merrill whispered to her, "So I never will."

The clan walked with her as Duncan guided her away from the camp—the procession felt like something akin to a funeral march. She could see the rest of Duncan's companions waiting by the forest's edge, an air of expectancy about them. Her fellow recruits, no doubt.

She turned back to the clan one last time, trying to capture the moment in her memory.

With or without the markings on her skin, she was Dalish. She would always be Dalish.


	16. To Make A Warden Grey (Part 1)

43

Aothor wondered what healing magic the Dalish mages and Edmund had used to keep her functional. He knew how the taint could claim a person, sometimes as quickly as within a day. Maybe Orzammar could think about enlisting some mages into its strike teams, help ward off the corruption. Even if it wasn't a cure, exactly, surely the spells could keep soldiers fighting for that much longer.

The Dalish elf still seemed to have plenty of fight in her, at least.

"Welcome to the team," Aothor said, "I'm Aothor. Pleasure to meet you."

"Anderan atish'an, durgen'len," She said stiffly.

"Atrast vala, algera," Aothor replied without so much as batting an eye. "This is Cousland, Lady, Isefel, Edmund, and Liri." He gestured to each of his fellows in turn. While Isefel seemingly had no misgivings about traveling with humans, Rosaya had them written all over her face as she took in the humans of their company. "Are you fit to travel?"

The Dalish girl rolled a shoulder in an irritated sort of half-shrug. "If I wasn't, I wouldn't be here, now would I?" For a moment she was pulled from the hold of whatever dark thoughts held her mind as something more lifelike flashed in her eyes.

"These are from the Keeper," Duncan said, passing a scroll to Edmund. "A transcription of the spell she used on Rosaya previously. Marethari wished for you to learn it."

Edmund glanced down at the scrolls, taken aback by Duncan's words. He wasn't the only one—Rosaya bristled noticeably as she watched the scroll change hands.

"Keeper Marethari would trust our peoples magic to shemlen?" she asked, incredulous.

"For you," Duncan said shortly as Edmund fumbled briefly with the parchment before storing it in his bag. "If you succumb before your cure can be attempted, you leaving your people will have been for nothing. Marethari means for you to stand a chance."

"What is the cure?" Aothor asked, "I've always heard and seen that the Blight sickness is lethal. If there's a way to undo it, I'm sure Orzammar would like to know."

"It is not so simple," Duncan said, turning and beginning into the trees back towards the main road. "And it is best explained later. If I were able to administer it now, I would, but unfortunately we must wait until we arrive at Ostagar. On that front we can no longer spare any time."

Cousland kicked away a small rock he'd been rolling under his foot, muttering under his breath about secrecy and a frustration at lack of any proper answers. If Aothor was honest, it irked at him as well.

The Grey Wardens had always been an order shrouded in mystery and secrets. He'd read through a collection of Orzammar's information on them once a few years back, more out of idle curiosity than anything else. There wasn't much—Wardens kept a stranglehold on all their research and writings and collected it all in their own fortresses, so what the Shaperate had on hand was mostly surface level and vague at best.

Between what he'd read and the Wardens he'd met in the past, there were certain things that didn't really match up and glaring questions always remained unanswered. He supposed he'd find out the truth about everything soon enough—he was going to become one soon, after all.

The old Warden ushered them with renewed urgency. No longer was this journey about just making it to the army camp in a timely manner. The tainted elf's odds of survival decreased with every day. Solemn silence and heartache overtook Rosaya again as they cleared the trees and found their way to the main road. Her quiet and downcast demeanor was oddly contagious amongst them.

What a merry bunch they were—a Dalish tainted by darkspawn and suffering the loss of her companion, a bride fresh from the kidnapping and attempted rape of her and her friends, a noble recently betrayed and forced to flee his home, a carta dwarf pulled from the figurative and nearly literal chopping block, and him with his own family issues. He wasn't sure what Edmund's recruitment story was, but if the trend was keeping then it probably wasn't a happy one.

He wondered if maybe Duncan didn't get more than he'd bargained for when he began his recruiting mission.

They'd barely been underway and already they encountered a problem—a problem being twenty-some villagers armed with pitchforks and torches. It was actually picturesque, in a way. They encountered the mob just as they cleared the trees, with their company exiting as the villagers were assembling to enter.

"Ho, Warden! You decide to hunt some rabbits, after all?" said the leader of the group, focused on Duncan at their approach.

The frown already on Duncan's face deepened. "Return to your homes—you'll only find trouble in these woods."

"Aye, and we mean to burn it out. We're not going to let no savage, heathen elves wander where they're not welcome," the man said, hefting his make-shift weapon in an ineffective attempt at a show of strength.

"You'll not be warned again—turn back. There's no need for you to hunt my people. They are already leaving." Rosaya said.

A few of them backpedaled as Rosaya stepped forwards, pale in the face.

"That's the one!" cried one of the youngest of the assembly, "That's the knife-eared bitch that tried to kill us!"

The Dalish girl's lovely features twisted with anger at the slur. "Watch your tone, shemlen. I didn't try to kill you," Rosaya said, something low and dangerous in her voice. "But if you keep talking that can change."

"Who do you think you are, threatening us so boldly? We'll teach you a lesson about hurting our boys, savage rabbit." The leader scowled, stepping forward and raising his pike.

They reacted together. Rosaya's hands fell to her bow and arrow as Isefel, Edmund and Liri shifted to stand in front of her—as much to stop the Dalish girl from launching herself at the humans as to protect her from them, he suspected—while he and Cousland moved to flank Duncan who held a hand out to catch the man by the shoulder.

They could just kill the villagers—Stone, it probably wouldn't even be hard—but Aothor doubted that would be good for the Warden's reputation.

The villagers began pressing towards them, voices rising together in uproar. The leader struggled against Duncan's grip, but the old Warden's superior strength held him tight.

"I would advise you stay your blades. Should you turn violent against my recruit, I'm afraid the rest of us will have no choice but to respond in kind." Duncan said.

"Are these not Bann Trumhall's lands?" Cousland asked, pitching his voice to carry over the crowd.

"What of it?" barked back one of the few women of the crowd.

Cousland held his axe casually—not threatening, but enough to remind the assembly of their superior weaponry. "Were I you, I would petition him for some knights to aid you. Surely you don't think you can vanquish Dalish hunters with pitchforks alone, do you?" Rosaya gaped at him, mouth moving though no sound came out due to shock and indignation.

"Don't talk down to us! We're plenty strong enough to drive out heathens."

"Perhaps. But you many of your boys are you willing to lose because they haven't got armor to stop arrows?" Cousland asked. Aothor suppressed a grin. Looked like the noble was good for more than just swinging his massive weapon around.

The people visibly shifted, murmuring to one another. Duncan slowly released his grip on the leader, leveling him with a severe look. "Allow us to pass."

The leader looked them over, eyes lingering overlong on Rosaya who still looked vaguely murderous. "Maybe you've got a point. Todd, Finn, Grover, the three of you come with me. We'll scout the woods, find where those rabbits have made their hole. The rest of you go petition Bann Trumhall for some knights—if we're doing this, we should be smart about it."

Rosaya scoffed, muttering something low in elven. Aothor didn't need a translation to figure she was probably threatening or insulting them. Probably both.

The majority of the mob turned away, somewhat uncertain, but they began making their way back to their village. The four scouts moved past them. "What about that one?" one of them asked, pointing with his torch towards Rosaya. Edmund narrowed his eyes at the man, and the flame on the torch sparked abruptly before dying in a puff of smoke.

They recoiled away, visibly startled. The leader swept his gaze over them, taking in their hardened expressions, sharp blades, and staff held by the now obvious mage. "Leave her. She's with the Wardens—we can't touch her. But she'll get hers someday, I'm certain."

The villagers dispersed, and they all breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Your people—will they be okay?" Cousland asked, glancing after the scouts.

Rosaya didn't even turn to acknowledge him as he spoke. "Spare me your false concern, shem." When she did look at him, there was anger and deep hurt in her eyes. "You sent them to get knights, to bring knights against my clan. Why would you do that?"

"I was trying to buy time," Cousland said, raising his hands in a placating motion. "It'll take them a day at least to get the knights and come back, if Bann Trumhall even agrees to support them. I figured that might give your people the window they need to get far enough away. I… I'm sorry if it puts your people in more danger. I just didn't see any other way to get them to leave without a fight."

Rosaya blinked at him, quiet as she absorbed his response.

"Not bad, for coming up with it on the spot," Aothor said, nodding to the human man. "Glad to see you know how to use your head."

Cousland rolled his eyes. "What, was that in doubt?"

"Well, you do seem to operate a lot off of emotion," Edmund muttered.

"I don't want to hear it from you," Cousland bit back, shaking his head and turning back to Duncan. "Don't we have places to be?"

Duncan nodded, already moving. "That we do. We will be traveling south through the Hinterlands to the ruins of Ostagar, on the edges of to Korcari Wilds. There is much ground to cover—we will be on the road until evening."

"You okay?" Edmund asked Rosaya as they reached the road.

The younger elf didn't lift her gaze from the ground as she spoke. "I'm fine."

Aothor wondered how she'd end up fitting in with the group. She was easily the youngest of them, probably not even at her twentieth year if he had to guess. She seemed a bit stand-offish, but recent events probably came into play there.

Whatever the case, her dynamic with the others couldn't possibly be worse than between Cousland and Edmund. The air between those two was frosty even after just a few words exchanged.

They pushed on the road into the evening, desperate to make up lost time. They didn't move as quickly as he'd been expecting, though it wasn't even on Rosaya's account—the young elf kept pace with them, the sickness not seeming to yet hinder her movement abilities, at least not in a way she was unable to cover.

It was their Commander that seemed slowed, if anything.

Aothor glanced to Duncan. There was a weariness in the old Warden as he moved, one that had been present since the night he claimed to sense the Archdemon. It would be easy to miss the fatigue—Duncan hid it well with purposeful movements and a head held high.

He wanted to believe that all the travel was simply wearing on him, but he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that there was more to it. Pieces of things he knew about the Wardens were beginning to fall together.

They found a spot in a field a little way away from the main road, just out of eyesight of anyone who might walk on it. There were no nearby villages, so it meant another night camping on the ground. The evening air was cold—their breath fogged like smoke from a dragon's mouth.

They began dividing camp duties amongst them. As they got the process of settling for the evening Aothor made his way to Duncan.

"Commander."

"Aothor," Duncan said in acknowledgement of his approach.

"I've a thought I'd like to run by you," Aothor said, setting his shield on the ground and leaning on it. Duncan waved for him to continue. "We've had a fair share of encounters with darkspawn, and we've done well. However, my fellow recruits are far from experienced in fighting the blighters. Cousland, Isefel, and Rosaya especially—and though Liri and Edmund fought in the Deep Roads they could do with more work on team tactics as well. I figured I could run some drills with them, start building strategies and improving teamwork."

The old Warden considered a moment before nodding, hands falling to his own weapons. "An excellent suggestion. Your own position as a commander makes you well suited to this sort of matter."

"Former commander," Aothor said, more out of reflex than anything else. "And I think it would be best if you took some time to rest. I'll handle the drills."

"Nonsense," Duncan said, rolling a shoulder, "I feel fine enough for something as simple as this."

Aothor leveled the human with a heavy look. "I've not been struck blind. You're running out of time, aren't you?"

Duncan went very still, his eyes flicking over to the other recruits. Liri and Edmund had gone to collect firewood while Isefel and Peter worked on erecting the tents, and Rosaya sat on a rock some distance away from them, simply watching the others carefully. None of them paid any mind to their conversation.

"What do you mean by that…?"

"I'm from Orzammar, Duncan, and I've fought on the front lines. Every so often a Warden will come to the city, join with our forces and fight against the darkspawn alongside us. We look forward to that—it usually means we get to make a bigger dent in the blighters numbers than normal, and more of our own men get to make it home to see their families," Aothor recalled clearly the times when he himself had fought alongside Wardens—always they fought with the desperation of dying men. Duncan was beginning to fight the same way. "After a while there's a celebration and they go to the Deep Roads alone, never to be seen again."

Duncan's face fell, a façade of strength cracking. "Much is required of Grey Wardens—we sacrifice a great deal to become what we are."

Aothor looked back to his fellow recruits, eyes lingering overlong on the Dalish girl who was adamantly ignoring all attempts from the others at conversation. Duncan's insistence that the only thing that could cure her was becoming a Grey Warden… it was starting to make sense.

"How much time do you have left, Duncan?" Aothor asked, repeating his question softly.

"It is difficult to put a time-table to these things, but at a guess… a few months, at the most. Likely less," Duncan admitted. "I thought I might have more time, but in times of a Blight the process inside us is accelerated. And something about that mirror… I fear that by destroying it, interacting with it… may have pushed things along even further for myself. I cannot shake the song from my mind."

"Is this why you were so desperate to find recruits? Because you're dying?"

"In part," Duncan said softly. "My time, and the time for others among the current Wardens, is approaching quickly. And with that time running out, we will need new blood to replace us and carry out the mission. The truth of the matter that there are simply not enough of us in Ferelden to stand against the Blight, regardless. There are not many Grey Wardens in Ferelden at the moment, but all of them are at Ostagar."

Aothor didn't like the sound of that. "Duncan, how many Grey Wardens are there in Ferelden?"

Duncan let out a slow breath pulling slightly on his beard. "At the moment, assuming none have died in any battles during my absence from the front… there are twenty of us in Ferelden. Should all of you and the other recruits awaiting us manage to become Wardens… twenty-eight."

Twenty-eight. Twenty-eight against a horde of darkspawn and an archdemon. Not nearly enough. "So there's a chance that not even all of us will survive the process?"

Edmund and Liri returned to the camp, firewood in their arms. Duncan's eyes lingered overlong on the mage, something like hope building on his face. "No one can say for sure. But I want to believe… that you will all be alright." The old Warden shook himself from his thoughts, turning back to Aothor. "So you know now, of the cost of becoming a Grey Warden. Have you any reservations on Joining because of this?"

Did he? He still didn't know all the specifics of what becoming a Grey Warden entailed, though he was beginning to get a clearer idea of it. "I have nothing else. At least with the Wardens, I might be able to strike a blow against Orzammar's most ancient enemy, still protect it in some way. By recruiting me you've saved my life and given me new purpose—I have no illusions about that, nor any reservations about what must come next."

Something like a smile pulled at Duncan's mouth despite the grave topic. "You say you have left your old life behind, but still you care for Orzammar and its people."

"I told you before: Orzammar is my duty, and my heart. It will always be this way even if the city has rejected me." He answered so quickly it even surprised him a bit. "I won't mention anything about this to the other recruits—I understand why this is something your order keeps quiet."

"I… thank you." Duncan said.

Aothor shrugged, lifting his shield again and strapping it to his arm. "I'll start working with the others. Might just do one-on-one assessments just for tonight, though. We've been able to see pieces of what they can do in action, but I'll like to get the full view, wouldn't you?"

Duncan nodded and began moving to the warm fire Edmund just got going—with minimal threat of explosion, too. "I'll simply observe, if you are so insistent."

Aothor nodded and went to Cousland. "Come on, we're running drills."

The noble blinked at him at the sudden declaration. "Why? You already know what I can do. We've fought together before."

"Doesn't hurt to do some extra training. You did good today, but there's already room to improve. We need to keep ourselves sharp." Aothor shrugged, beginning towards the empty space beside camp, fully expecting Cousland to follow. Which he did, axe held in hand and dog following after.

"Aothor has the most experience fighting darkspawn, aside from myself, and is a champion of single-combat amongst his people. He will be helping build team strike tactics that will no doubt be useful in the coming days, and to do so effectively he must understand how each of you fights best." Duncan said, speaking loud enough for the rest of them to hear.

Cousland hesitated a moment, rotating his weapon in his grip. "So, full blades and armor then? Not like we have proper sparring equipment."

Aothor raised a shield, shifting his stance to prepare for combat. "If you're as good with that massive hunk of metal as I think you are, you'll control your strikes enough not to kill me," he said, a grin pulling at his mouth. "But I doubt it will matter—I don't think you'll be able to land a hit."

"I hope you're ready to eat those words." Cousland chuckled at the challenge, shifting his stance and waving his dog away. Lady seated herself to the side of where they stood, watching with large and intent eyes.

They began to circle one another, one step and then two, sizing each other up. Cousland had the edge on him in terms of weapon reach, but that could just as easily be his downfall. All Aothor had to do was get past the blade, get in close, and he'd be vulnerable. Easier said, but nothing he'd never done before. Besides, the human lacked experience in fighting shorter foes, whereas he'd been dealing with hurlocks for years.

Aothor moved first, charging in. Cousland swung back in response and Aothor raised his shield, glancing the axe away and pressing forwards. For a moment it seemed like he could get close enough, but Cousland turned in place, swinging back with momentum carried over from the previous strike.

He backpedaled to avoid the blade, raising his shield to counter the human's follow-up strike. The human wasn't like so many of the warriors in Orzammar, who simply chose the largest weapon because they thought it made them look strong. He knew the shortcoming of his weapon, and also how to use it to his greatest advantage.

Cousland smirked, holding his blade at the ready again, something playful in his eyes. "For a small man, you sure talk big. What was that about not landing a hit?"

"Just wanted to know you could keep up with the easy shit, but it seems like that's just boring you," Aothor chuckled. "Let's see what you can actually do."

He didn't wait for the humans reply, charging back in before he'd even finished speaking. He circled just beyond the impressive reach of Cousland's weapon for a few swings, drawing in just close enough to goad the man into striking again before pulling back or parrying, trying to get a feel for his attack pattern.

Strike, strike, turn to maintain momentum, strike.

Aothor cut in close as Cousland turned, aiming at the brief window of vulnerability as the noble exposed his back. He about had his blade near enough to tap the human's side and claim victory when Cousland pivoted, twirling the haft around his neck and catching it to strike at him without even fully turning back.

Were Aothor a human, the blow would taken his head off. As it was, the head of the axe sailed in a harmless arc high over his head.

Aothor swung back with his shield, knocking the humans legs out from under him. With the combined momentum and weight of the swing of his ax and the force of the blow to his legs, Cousland flipped mid-air and fell squarely on his ass.

Aothor might have taken the moment to gloat, or perhaps even offer words of advice and encouragement on his technique, if he didn't get knocked over and pinned by a snarling hound.

The low rumble of her growl sent a shiver down his spine as he stared into her toothy maw.

"Lady, no! Off!" Cousland yelled immediately, sitting himself back up and reaching for his dog.

With no hesitation the dog stepped away and Aothor found himself breathing a sigh of relief. He watched as the snow-white mabari moved to her human, whining and sniffing him head to toe, as if searching for injury.

"Well, good to know your dog will cover you when you mess up," Aothor huffed, bring himself to his feet and picking up his sword.

A cursory glance to the others let him see Isefel pass a few coins to Liri, who grinned without even looking up from her work. So, it was a betting sort of day.

"Oh, shut up. I almost had you a few times, admit it," Cousland rolled his eyes, stroking his dog to calm her. "She's never done that during sparring before. Guess she doesn't know you well enough to trust you won't hurt me."

"'She knows not to attack unless told,' huh?" Isefel remarked from the side where Edmund was working magic on her eye. "Seems like your dog might have different ideas."

"To be fair, that was more of a warning. If Lady was actually attacking, she'd have had her teeth on his neck." Cousland said, unruffled by the barb in the elf's voice. "Sorry about that, Aothor. It won't happen again—will it, Lady? Aothor's on our side." He said, giving his hound a pointed look.

For her part she seemed at least apologetic. She was desperate to protect her master after the fall of Highever, Aothor thought. Cousland was as much the only family Lady had left as she was for him.

"She won't always be around to save you, and you'll have to get used to fighting shorter opponents like me—genlocks are the most common type of darkspawn," he said.

"You sound like Fergus," Cousland said, something distant in his voice as he grabbed his axe and used it to help him get to his feet. "We'll work on it. I'll say this: you're strong for such a little guy. I mean, you barely come up to my elbow."

"I could just flip you back on your ass, you know."

Cousland chuckled, swinging his axe back so it rested on his shoulder. "Like I'd let you get away with the same trick twice."

"Like that 'trick' wouldn't have lined you up perfectly to be killed if this was a real fight. A 'trick' only needs to work once to kill you—you don't often get a second chance to adapt." Aothor said, brow raised.

Lady finally seemed calmed, though she stared at him with something like distrust as she stood at her masters side in such a way that implied she wasn't moving.

"You're good with that axe, know what you're doing with the weight and back-swings. Just mind the way you rotate, you leave an opening on your right on the third swing in that attack pattern—though I guess that's normally where the dogs stands, isn't it?" Aothor mused. "Take a break for now. Isefel, how's that eye?"

"Stings like a bitch, but I'm told that's a good thing," she said through clenched teeth. "Mother always said healing magic felt like cool water and soothing gentleness—you sure you're doing this right?"

"I'm no spirit healer, all I can do is surface-level care." Edmund rolled his eyes, pulling his hands away just a few moments later. "And I told you, it's fine. Probably. If the dead stuff isn't removed there could be problems with the fresh flesh—eugh, that's a terrible word combination. Fresh flesh, fresh flesh… yeah, I hate that, never saying it again."

Isefel shook her head at his rambling and exchanged her old bandage for the eyepatch. "Right, well, Mr. Healing Hands here says I should be good to go. I'm next, then?" she asked, already getting her gear and moving to the clear space where he stood as Cousland went over to the fire.

"Right. We can start working on getting you better adjusted to that blind spot," Aothor said with a nod.

Cousland he'd already seen in action a handful of times, during both the fall of Highever and in the woods with the darkspawn earlier. But Isefel was slightly more of an unknown fighter. She was clearly skilled—she carried a longsword in one hand and a shorts word in the other with trained confidence, and he had an informed inkling that she had many, many knives hidden beneath her layers of clothing. She threw blades in the middle of a fight with terrifying accuracy, lack of depth perception aside.

He'd have to be more careful fighting with her—while Cousland had worn a full set of proper armor, Isefel wore only clothing and a dark coat overtop. They'd need to get her some leathers soon, at least.

They squared off, but this time it was Isefel who made the first move.

She moved to strike, but when Aothor lifted his shield to defend she shifted to the side, cutting in at a different angle. Aothor moved out of the way, positioning himself where she had been previously. He struck back and again she moved, skirting just beyond his blade and striking in again.

He parried with the blade but she pushed back with both weapons, forcing him to give ground.

From his peripheral he could see Liri taking bets from the Cousland and Edmund now. Despite the surface level similarity between the two women's fighting styles, the execution was markedly different.

Liri was more of a below-the-belt fighter—literally, now that they were surrounded by humans and elves—using underhanded and downright dirty moves to cripple and disable a foe before striking them down.

Isefel was more graceful, fluid, turning the force of his blows back against him and defending herself by simply not being where he was striking. Even though she was taller than the average elf, she was still lithe and frustratingly difficult to pin down.

He got in closer, meeting the steel of her off-hand with his own blade with enough force to knock it out of her hand. He cut in, stopping his blade an inch before it struck her side.

Yet he couldn't claim this round as a victory—for her other sword was level with his head, the flat pressed lightly against his ear.

Isefel grinned, tossing stray hair from her face. "I think we can say we'd both be dead, or close to dying."

Aothor chuckled, lowering his blade as she did hers. "If this is you with one eye, I tremble to think what you could do with two. You're already doing better at managing your blind spot than you were yesterday. I think that it's something that will improve with practice and time."

"Maybe. But the real problem is when I'm facing more than one opponent. Harder to keep track," she said.

"That is true. We can try and mitigate it by putting someone on your blind spot in all the formations, but that obviously isn't completely practical. You'll inevitably come into circumstances where you'll have to fight alone. We'll work on that going forward, then." Aothor turned to the others. This time it seemed that Cousland had won the round of bets. Edmund had himself busied with some old scrolls Duncan had given him earlier that day. "Amell, you're next."

The mage looked up incredulously. "What do you want me to do, throw fire at you? I could list a dozen reasons why that's a bad idea. I know you dwarves are resistant to magic, but last I checked you're still flammable."

Aothor shook his head. He didn't have an accurate way to gauge the mage's magical abilities, but that wasn't really his intent anyways. Occasional odd explosion aside, his spells had been remarkably effective against the darkspawn and his barriers gave them all an extra layer of confidence in battle.

"Liri says a templar had you cornered in Highever. Is that right?"

"… yeah. That's right," Edmund said slowly, side eyeing Cousland. The noble was purposefully not acknowledging him. "It was all I could do to get away."

He figured as much. "There's nothing guaranteeing you won't find yourself in a similar situation in the future. If something happens and darkspawn get through our lines, or you find yourself unable to draw on your power, you should at least know out to defend yourself martially. Ever held a sword before?"

"Not really," the mage admitted. "Templars don't really like the idea of mages being able to fight back without magic. Kind of defeats the purpose."

"Well, you're not just a mage now. You're a Warden," Aothor said.

Isefel stepped towards the mage, drawing one of her blades. "Here, take my short sword. We can start with the basics—stick 'em with the pointy end." Aothor wondered idly if the elf had experience training others in the past—somehow, it wouldn't surprise him. She had the bearing of an instructor.

Edmund moved as if to accept the blade but halted with his arm half extended. "I can't, not right now," he said, shaking his head and turning back to the parchment in his hands. "Keeper Marethari gave me this spell. I need to take some time and master it—it's the only thing we have that can help with Rosaya's condition. But I do… want to learn how to use a sword. Rain check on the lessons?"

Isefel nodded, returning the blade to its sheathe. "Alright. Aothor, I imagine you'll have your hands full with whatever tactics you're going to be teaching us, so I can take over the mage's blade training if that's alright with you."

"I've no objections. It makes things easier on my end," Aothor shrugged. Isefel had a way with a blade that might suit Edmund well, better than his own style or Cousland's for sure. If not Edmund, then Rosaya was next. Aothor scanned the camp—the Dalish elf was nowhere to be found. "Where'd our newest recruit go?"

"_Went into the tent as soon as you and Isefel started going at it," _Liri said, pausing her alchemical work at the question. _"I checked on her a moment ago to see if she wanted to get in on bets, but the kid's out cold."_

He huffed but tried to let the annoyance slide away. Rosaya hadn't helped at all with the camp duties, and now she was dodging out of the spar evaluation. But she was sick, and likely needed as much rest as she could get, not to mention she was still grieving… it was probably fine. He could always get to her tomorrow.

"Fine, then. We should all probably follow suit—it'll be a long day on the road tomorrow," he said.

"What, not going to spar with Liri? You've made a point of doing the rest of us," Cousland said, looking over to where the lady dwarf was beginning to cap containers of suspicious contents.

Liri looked up at him, brow raised in something like a question.

Aothor just shook his head, unstrapping his shield from his arm. "Been there, done that, not eager to do it again."

Cousland and Isefel shared a confused look as they lacked context, but Liri smirked and chuckled as she began packing her things away. Though the fight in the ring that day had been cut off short, he still had the sneaking suspicion that he wouldn't have won. There was no way he'd have been able to keep pace with her much longer than he did.

But of course, he didn't need to give the lady dwarf the satisfaction of actually admitting to that where she could hear.

"Commander, what's the watch order for the night?" Aothor asked, turning to the older man.

Duncan had been silent for a long while, watching them all with something like fondness. "If Edmund is going to stay up studying the spell regardless, he and I can take first watch. Isefel, Liri, the both of you can have second. Aothor, you and Cousland take the last one. We leave at first light."

Aothor and Cousland both began peeling off their armor and moved into the tent they'd share for the night. As he lay back in his bedroll, he couldn't keep Duncan's words from earlier out of his mind.

Becoming a Grey Warden… could kill him. Could kill them all. It was actively killing Duncan, the same way it was slowly destroying Rosaya. It wasn't that he was unused to staring death in the face—whether by assassins in the gilded halls of the Diamond Quarter or monsters in the Deep Roads, danger and tumult had been a constant in his life for as long as he could remember.

He'd been meant to die in the Deep Roads. Aothor was certain of it, and also certain that it was by nothing less than the guidance of the Ancestors and a miracle straight from the Stone that he'd lasted long enough to find Duncan and the Wardens.

Whether death still waited for him was something he would have to find out. But he would meet it as he always had, no matter what form it took—head held high with pride in his heart, ever a warrior of his people. He felt the darkness of sleep take him over, an odd peace at the thought.

Supposing he and the other recruits all made it through whatever trials awaited… with enough training and time they might make for a passable team. Maybe.

Edmund stared at the scrolls, idly tracing the foreign lettering with a finger. The hand-written script was no more legible than anything else he'd seen in Thedas.

In addition to the script were runes of some kind, symbols notably different from the rest that he vaguely recognized from some of the spellbooks in the Circle. From what he remembered of the lessons in the tower and what he could pull together from context, the spell seemed more about "slowing" than healing, whatever that meant.

He really needed to learn how to read.

Though his eyes were focused on the page, in truth he'd long given up any hope of puzzling out the instructions. His mind was elsewhere, fixated on the coming battle of Ostagar. Of the betrayal, and the hundreds—thousands—that would die.

Anxiety welled up in him at just the thought. For all his planning and plotting, he still couldn't figure out what to do about the coming battle.

Say he managed to save Cailan, at least—how exactly he'd go about doing that and still make it out alive himself, he had no idea—Alistair wouldn't need to be on the throne, and they might be able to avoid the civil war altogether.

Alistair not on the throne, staying a Warden… Adamant, the Fade, the Nightmare.

That was a problem so far down the line he couldn't even begin to account for it. Hell, he barely expected to survive long enough to see it. But leaving it up to chance didn't sit well with him. So did that mean it came down to picking one Theirin over the other in the long run? That didn't sit well with him either. He didn't want to have to make that choice

What about Loghain, then? Maybe he could try and talk to him, reason with him somehow? But what reason would Loghain even have to give him the time of the day? He was a mage—which meant he was already under scrutiny—and also a Grey Warden—which Loghain had an established distaste for.

He could always just try and kill the Teyrn, he supposed.

Who was he kidding? There was no way he'd be able to bring himself to do that. Besides, he didn't think it'd really solve the problem.

The real problem—the darkspawn. He'd fought them a few times to the date. Each time he was overwhelmed by how _wrong_ they felt. They hadn't ever faced a group numbering more than around a dozen, but just the imagery of them swarming out of the Wilds in mass… unless he could find some way to miraculously thin the darkspawn numbers…

Even if he knew what was coming, even if he had magic at his occasionally functional command, he was still just one man.

Duncan caught his eye through the flames of the campfire. "Having trouble?"

"Well, you know how it is. Your eyes move over the same line of text four times without comprehending a thing. I'm just tired, I think. I'll pick it up again tomorrow. It's getting late anyways, probably time to wake the next shift," Edmund pulled at his hair in frustration, tossing the pages of text into his bag.

"I wasn't talking about the spell."

Edmund stilled at the old Warden's words, feeling very akin to a deer in the headlights as he held Duncan's gaze.

Silence hung between them. Eventually Duncan's eyes fell to the fire, distant and maybe just a bit… sad? Perhaps it was the glow and shadow cast by the campfire, but Duncan's face looked more aged and wearier than Edmund recalled.

"Brosca, Aeducan, Cousland, Tabris, and Mahariel," Duncan said after a long moment. "All present and accounted for. Each one recruited out from under danger and death."

Edmund fidgeted with his hands, uncertain what to do with himself. "Yeah. It seemed like the better option, getting them into the Wardens. They get to live, and you get recruits. Everyone's happy. Mostly happy, anyways."

"And they'll survive the Joining? All of them?" There was something disbelieving and so terribly hopeful in Duncan's voice.

How many recruits had Duncan taken in and gotten attached to only to watch die days later as they drank from the cup? How did he manage to stay so strong even in the face of that? Duncan had already earned Edmund's respect; the journey having proven that he was every bit as honorable and strong as the games and books had led him to believe.

But now, in this moment, Duncan was more human than ever before.

"I… I think so." Edmund said. No, he didn't just think. "I know they will. They'll live."

"Then that is more than enough," Duncan said with a contented sigh.

Quiet hung between them again. The fire was beginning to die—Edmund flicked his wrist, providing it with more power and warmth. The small things like that were becoming easier to control. At least, it was beginning to feel that way. It was still hit-or-miss with the bigger spells. He'd come very, very close to accidentally setting Isefel's entire face on fire earlier when trying to close the wound on her eye.

"You've already fought at Ostagar for a while, haven't you Duncan?" Edmund asked after a while.

"Only briefly, when the raids were small," said Duncan. "Once I realized what we were facing, I went at King Cailan's behest to petition the mages for further aid in addition to what had already been sent and request similar support from the dwarves. Clearly, that did not go as we'd hoped."

"Because you didn't have the treaties. So, because we don't have that support… how do you feel about what's coming?"

"King Cailan has put together a strong force, and his tactical advisors are some of the best Ferelden has had in years." Duncan leaned into the fire, warming his hands. "We saw in the Deep Roads the way the darkspawn are moving. They gather below the Korcari Wilds in massive numbers. If we play our cards right, we might be able to drive them back, at least long enough until further aid comes to support the force."

It was a battle of attrition, then, even if they won. "As long as the Archdemon remains, the darkspawn will continue to mass and drive at us, wearing us down."

"That is correct," Duncan said gravely. "Future victories will come at such a high cost they likely won't be counted as such."

Something uneasy pooled in Edmund's stomach. Grey Wardens do what they must. Sacrificing the relative few to salvage the many. In this case, Ostagar was the relative few.

But those few were still people.

"You're always saying that we can't save everyone, that we have to pick our battles wisely," Edmund said slowly, looking into the flames as he was unable to meet Duncan's gaze. "How… how do you do that? How do you choose?"

"The right thing is rarely the easy thing—I know that for certain," said Duncan. "Sometimes the right thing is something that seems wrong to others. Sometimes the right thing is to sacrifice oneself for another. Sometimes the right thing is to do nothing."

It was somehow comforting and entirely not what he wanted to hear. "And what if you're wrong? What if you try and do the right thing… but you mess up, and choose wrong?"

"You try not to regret. And then you look at what went wrong, move forward, and try to make the next right choice." Duncan hummed, stroking his beard as he thought. "Doing the right thing does not always mean doing the good thing."

Maybe. Everything in the rest of the "story" hinged on the battle and inevitable betrayal. Whatever he changed there would have far reaching consequences, for sure. He thought back to the Circle, to the moment when he could have stopped Jowan but chose not to for the sake of preserving his knowledge for later. In the moment, that hadn't been a good thing. He still didn't know if it was the right thing.

But he didn't regret it. Not yet, at least.

The fall at Ostagar was the first domino and a chain effect that would change Ferelden. He knew the steps he needed to take to see the Blight ended quickly. If he upset the results of Ostagar, that might all change, and he'd no longer be able to predict the "narrative."

Grey Wardens do what they must, after all. Burning villages to save nations, and all that.

Edmund glanced at the old Warden seated across the fire from him who was now carefully maintaining his blades. Duncan and the other Wardens would be casualties of the battle if he did nothing. Would it even help if he warned them though? He wondered. Duncan wasn't the type of man to run in the face of impossible odds.

But he didn't want Duncan to die.

Maybe he could still chance some things, small things here and there, save Duncan and a few others. He might not be able to change the fate of the battle, but he could still do _something_. He had to. He still had a few days before they even arrived at the army camp-most of it he'd have to play by ear.

"What else have you learned?" Duncan asked. Edmund blinked, not sure what the question was referring to. "You learned of the Joining and the other recruits survival from spirits. What else?"

Ah. Shit. Edmund shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Most of it is stuff to do with Wardens and the Blights. The Joining, the Calling, compromised fertility, all the big-ticket items. Turns out they like to watch what you guys get up to from the Fade, and if you know how to talk to them you can get them to share what they've watched." It wasn't a total lie. Just… 80% a lie, or something like that.

"I thought the Circles frowned upon such interactions with spirits," Duncan mused.

"Oh, they definitely do. It's not exactly something one brings up when templars are around," he said. "But it's useful, and as long as I'm careful it's not like I'll get possessed. The benevolent spirits don't have any real interest in possessing people, anyways. Besides, even if it was dangerous, Grey Warden mages aren't held to the Circle's standards."

"While that is true, I would still urge you to exercise caution. I am no expert in areas of the arcane, but many here in Ferelden will judge our order even more severely by the allowances we give our mages. Simply be discrete," said Duncan, and Edmund nodded along with his words. That much, he'd pretty much figured out on his own. "The fall of Highever, Howe's betrayal… they were the ones who informed you of that as well?"

Edmund shifted where he sat, trying to shake some of his nervous energy. The attack on the castle, and resulting confrontation with the others afterwards, still stung in his mind. "Yep. The interactions and machinations of the powerholders of the world are always of interest to spirits. Palaces and courts are filled with intent and emotion, and both of these things draw beings of the Fade the same way bloody battlefields do."

"So these spirits watch Wardens and nobles, and they told you of what they observed." Duncan was quiet for a moment, the silence only broken by the crackling of the campfire. "What have they told you that has you nervous about doing the right thing?" There was a sharpness to the old Warden's gaze that made him feel entirely exposed.

"Ostagar," Edmund answered without a moment's hesitation. It was time to be a bit more up-front. Just a bit. "The King Cailan's forces can't hold out. They're going to be overwhelmed." And the even bigger problem was that it was only part of the issue. "They're going to lose, and… I don't know if there's anything I can do about it."

A dreadful quiet hung between them, Duncan's face calm and expressionless while something else shifted in his eyes. "I see."

"I'm no battle strategist, and all I'm good for is throwing fire and getting vague advice about the future from spirits. I just… I feel like because I know, I have to do something."

"You are meant for more than even that, I am certain. Do not underestimate yourself." Duncan said, staring into the fire. "Perhaps the greatest advantage of Ostagar is also it's most glaring fault—there is no fallback. If the bottleneck breaks and the fortress is overrun there will be nothing left to stop the darkspawn from surging into the lowland countryside."

It wasn't a battle they could all abandon, then. They couldn't pull back and meet the darkspawn at a different location, not without endangering hosts of civilians. "Any chance someone has another ancient Tevinter fortress on the edge of the Wilds tucked away somewhere? We could really use another one." He said with half-hearted humor.

"We would never be so lucky." Duncan said with a dry chuckle. "There is a chance your spirits are wrong about this—but we should prepare for the worst."

"Sure. Always good to have a contingency plan and not need it than to need one and not have it. Maybe we could send some runners from the camp to the nearby farms, have people get moving north just in case the darkspawn do break through," Edmund suggested.

Duncan nodded thoughtfully. "Cailan wants to avoid causing a panic amongst the people, many of those farmers are supplying food for the army, and it will be difficult to convince them to leave their lands behind regardless… but I will recommend it to the king. I will also speak with him and his advisors at length about other contingency plans."

His advisors. Loghian. Edmund turned his gaze to the ground as he thought about the Teyrn and his betrayal. If he told Duncan… what would he do about it? Go to Cailan with the information? Would that do any good? They would probably insist on some formal investigation, have discharge him temporarily and put someone else at the head of his forces for the battle.

Maybe without Loghain's betrayal they'd win that battle, but it wouldn't be the final fight. The darkspawn would keep coming out of the wilds, crashing against them like ocean waves wearing down a stone. Stopping Loghain here didn't mean stopping the darkspawn.

"Thank you, Duncan," he said after a while. "For believing in me. If you didn't, I don't think there'd have been anything I could do."

"You have already proven yourself on multiple counts to be reliable. I would be a fool to disregard your advice outright," Duncan said softly. "And thank you for sharing what you know with me. We are a more powerful force when we work together than when we are alone."

"Yeah," he said, glancing back to the tents with the other recruits. He'd have to tell them something similar to what he told Duncan, and probably soon. "I guess so."

The chill of the autumn night pressed in as the hour grew late. Edmund woke Liri and Isefel for their watch before lying down in his own bedroll, Duncan doing similarly. The old Warden was out like a light.

He laid there in the darkness, listening to Aothor's soft snores as he stared at the canvas of the tent. Unable to help himself, he sat up and reached into his bag and pulled out the fragment of glass. It was heavy in his hand, disproportionate to its size.

Even though it was broken still the dullest light emitted off of it. His reflection was fogged and distant, like an out-of-focus camera shot. He held it closer to his face, desperate, _hungry_ to see once more what he saw before.

The imaged cleared and once again he was staring into his real eye.

He turned it over in his fingers, pinching the shard through a wrap of cloth just in case. His heart raced oddly, a syncopated rhythm that felt out of time with the rest of his body. It was a strange and terrible confirmation—a piece of his actual self existed here in Thedas. Or maybe it wasn't that—maybe the Eluvian was just reflecting how he actually envisioned himself rather than what his current shell looked like.

There were no answers, only wondering questions. Nothing from the games to give guidance, and no one to ask. Part of him was deeply shaken—this was something that was so different he had no real way of accounting for it. He hadn't encountered anything like that in his time in Thedas.

Still, this had to be a good thing. It had to. Maybe there was a way for him to go home.

Thedas ultimately didn't need him. In the camp around him were five very capable individuals, and while it would be nice to change some things about the way things were supposed to go, he was ultimately superfluous.

He felt a strange ache at the notion. He couldn't place it save for some of Pride's jeering from their last encounter in the Fade, it's barbed remarks still lingering in his mind. He brushed it off—that was the last thing he needed to be worrying about. The last thing, but still on the list.

He snapped himself out of his own thoughts and entrancement with the little piece of glass in his hand. How long had he been staring at it? It felt like an eternity. Maybe it was a level of tiredness setting in, but he nearly swore he could hear a slight hum coming from the shard.

He re-wrapped it carefully and tucked it back into his journal. Staring at it wouldn't do him any good—he'd need help before tackling the problem that it posed. It was a problem bigger than he could handle.

Most problems seemed to be, these days.

Frustrated at the potential of hope met with nothing but mystery, he flopped back into his bedroll and tried to calm himself enough to sleep. He tossed and he turned on the uneven ground, but eventually he must have been taken under because he found himself standing in a wide-open field.

In the waking world the grass was browning with late-autumn chill, but in this dreamscape the field was green with spring life. Odd islands hung in the air—some of them seemed upside down.

The scenery would have been downright cheery if not for the small hooded figure lurking nearby. The area immediately around it was de-saturated in shades of grey, like it was actively sucking the life from the space.

So Isolation was going to be a regular visitor. Marvelous.

Edmund absently pulled at the waist-high grass as he watched the demon. "So, I've just exchanged Pride for you, is that it?"

"No," It answered, soft and eerie still. "I've not built a wall. I am not strong enough. Others could come. But they will not—they are all still afraid. You still hold a piece of Pride."

A piece of Pride. He still wasn't sure what that meant. He knew that after his last encounter with Pride he'd felt charged with more power than he ever felt before—was he still holding on to that somewhere inside himself?

"But you're still here," He countered. "You're not scared of me?"

"I am hungry."

Maybe it was just the sort of day he'd been having, but Isolation unsettled him even a bit more than last time. If it was afraid of him like the other spirits apparently were, he'd at least have some kind of power in the situation. But what he was looking at now was more akin to starving animal than ethereal being, and he probably looked to it something like a five-course meal with desert.

He turned and began walking through the field, very aware of Isolation shadowing him—literally. It was hungry. It wanted something from him—maybe he could have some power in the encounter, after all. He could throw it "scraps," enough to keep it placated, but not enough to build it's confidence, and maybe he could get some help in return.

Without Pride, Isolation was all he had.

There was a metaphor buried in that, he was certain, something his grandfather would extrapolate on in an hour-long lecture. But he was equally certain he didn't really have the luxury of contemplating it right now.

"Can you read?" he said, turning back to it. That was his first priority—the mirror and his questions around that were a close second, but if he didn't figure out how to read he'd be outed before he got around to puzzling it out. It was honestly miraculous he'd lasted this long.

It made an odd sort of hum, something dissonant and strange. "I know the essence of words, the impact of the shapes on the page. Many souls have poured out their loneliness in writing. A young girl who mourns being estranged by her peers, a soldier writing a final goodbye to his family as he dies, an apprentice chronicles being torn from home and crammed into a tower… I am familiar with such works. The pain bleeds through the pages and echoes on."

"Sounds like light reading," he mused, raising a brow at the notion. As far as an answer to his actual question went, he'd take that as a 'sort-of yes.' Better than any other offers he was getting. Which were non-existent. "Teach me to read."

"And what will you give me if I do?" It countered without missing a beat. Bargains and deals—that much, at least, was consistent across his interactions with demons.

"What do you want?"

"That is a dangerous question to ask. I want a great many things—but mostly I want your pain. I can see an ache you carry—the reminder through a face you see frequently. Red hair, a voice in the shape of hands, and eyes that laugh. Always together, companion, family. Her name means music, but she cannot hear it."

"Get out of my head," he snapped, hairs on the back of his head raising in an uneasy chill. It was endearing when Cole did it, but the spirit of Compassion's intent was always to voice the pain so it could heal. Isolation wanted to draw out and prod the pain into a cankerous ache.

"It is loud," Isolation hissed, "You are reminded of your separation in waking, the pain is amplified here. You see her in the dwarf."

He crossed his arms over his body, fully facing the demon. He wasn't giving ground on this. "You can't have Melody."

"Hm… that is the name… a song… very well. She is your loudest pain—but not your only one. You have so many… which to choose…? Aged hands, lines of life carved into the face. Strong heart, wise advice. Caretaker, leader… running out of time." Isolation tilted it's head to the side, eyeless mask sizing him up much like one might evaluate a piece of meat.

Edmund felt a chill run down his spine. He wasn't sure if Isolation was talking about Duncan or his grandfather—probably both.

"I think I'll do the choosing, if it's all the same to you," he said, stepping towards the demon. For the first time, it did not move back from him as he approached. With every step nearer the world around him shifted into tones of grey and an icy coldness crept over him.

Isolation seemed displeased, but it did not make indication that it would deny him his choice. The demon was just as desperate as him, he supposed.

By the time he was within arms-reach of Isolation he had his memory—his pain—chosen. Not something as personal as his family, but still something he'd missed since day one.

For a moment they just stared each other down. "So… how am I supposed to…?" He asked. When he interacted with Pride and gave it stories and information about Earth and Thedas, he just spoke to it. Somehow it seemed like an exchange like this would be… more intimate.

"Focus through me, and let it bleed beyond," it said, posture straightening slightly as it shivered with excitement.

He focused, as he'd tried to do before, on the memory in his mind. Whereas before he'd tried to manifest a location into the space around him, this time he pressed the intention towards Isolation, feeding it forward to a small, specific point.

Isolation's loneliness washed over him like an icy wave, and the music broke out, echoing off of the open air, all his favorite songs from home playing out at once.

The 1970s hits his grandfather played on repeat, the songs with heavy bass he'd play for Melody so she could feel it too, even theme songs and openings from his favorite shows. He had to physically stop himself from clapping to the opening of Friends. Time and place, and this was most certainly neither.

The sound swirled in the air as a chaotic cacophony, so much at once he couldn't really focus on any one track. It all seemed to spiral in towards Isolation, focused in and pulled down with a whirlpool of gravity.

A piece of him ached deeply at the sounds. He'd always been the type to surround himself with music. It helped him focus, and it kept his brain busy, and provided distraction when he needed it. In comparison to everything else he'd lost since coming to Thedas it was a small thing, but it's absence was profound nonetheless.

As abruptly as the sounds came into being, it all vanished just as quickly as Isolation drank everything down like it was gasping for air.

He felt hollow in its wake. His head spun, trying to focus on the demon. His bargain with Pride had been more straightforward, an even give-and-take. He had the sinking feeling that whatever he'd just done with Isolation was nothing so simple. The ache of homesickness he carried with him throbbed more than before.

"The payment is acceptable. Whenever you feel the ache of these, the separation for the lack of your songs, the unfamiliarity with the music of this world… you pain will bleed to me and I will feed again," Isolation said, voice just a bit louder than before. So he'd basically signed up for a subscription to reading lessons where the re-occurring fee was his pain, memories, and soul, even while awake. There were probably other effects the demon wasn't even telling him about.

Yeah, he'd probably regret this. Somehow he always managed to dig a deeper hole for himself, and it seemed rock-bottom was a long ways off.

Might as well settle in and get comfortable in the pit, then.

He tried to shake of the melancholy holding him and ignore the lingering echo of Earth's music in his mind. Isolation was standing away again, returned to it's fixed distance without having moved at all. Even though the demon returned to it's normal distance, still the dreamscape around them seemed strangely desaturated.

"Fine. Now it's your turn," he said, settling himself on a large stone in the field that he was almost certain wasn't there before.

Symbols shimmered into being, hanging in the air and spinning about the space. "Very well. Let us begin."

Isefel adjusted the eyepatch on her face as she walked. It was something of an irritant on her freshly healed skin, but overall it was more helpful than not. Just one more thing to get used to.

The clouds were heavy all throughout the morning, the winds threatening rain but not delivering upon it. The oppressive gloom lingered as they continued south. Whether it was the weather or the culmination of all the recent events finally settling on everyone, the mood of their group was less than cheery as they moved towards Ostagar.

The mage walked at the rear of their group, pouring over scrolls as they moved and occasionally tripping over the lady dwarf who walked in front of him because he wasn't paying attention.

For her part, Liri seemed to be the only one unaffected by the generally downcast atmosphere. She even seemed to be making something of a game out Edmund's stumbling into her, stopping abruptly in front of Edmund to either test his awareness or outright trip him. Mostly to trip him, Isefel suspected.

Duncan and Aothor walked at the head of the group, engaged in a quiet debate about the merits and downfalls of hammer-and-anvil tactics. Isefel was just a step behind them, mostly just listening in on their conversation.

She glanced back to the very back of their walking order—Rosaya trailed behind, keeping pace but clearly maintaining an intentional distance from the rest of them. Outside of their initial introductions and the interaction with the villagers, she didn't think Rosaya had said a single word. Even though Liri apparently couldn't speak, she was nowhere near the quietest member of the group.

The only real or willing interaction the Dalish elf had with any of them was with Lady when the hound had approached her with intentions of inspecting her. Rosaya seemed to enjoy the attention of the mabari, who was surprisingly walking at her side instead of at her masters, who Rosaya seemed to have a terribly unsubtle and automatic dislike for. She seemed to prefer the dog to the owner—the direct opposite of Isefel.

Isefel sidled up to the human in question as they resumed travel after their mid-day meal, matching her pace to his. "Looks like you've been abandoned. She has a new favorite," she said, inclining her head to where the mabari walked with the Dalish elf.

Cousland glanced back, eyeing them as they walked together. "Maybe. Or maybe I just told Lady to keep her company," he said, keeping his tone low so as not to be overheard by the others. "She doesn't seem too keen on the rest of us, but considering what she's been through recently… poor kid probably feels alone. I just thought it might help."

"That's very thoughtful of you," Isefel said.

Cousland rolled his eyes. "Always the tone of surprise with you people."

"To be fair, I've known you and the others for a grand total of… three days. It's not like I know you that well to begin with."

"That's fair, I suppose." He said, grinning slightly. "So we should get to know each other better, then."

Isefel couldn't help but roll her eye a bit. "What, shall I share my whole life story? Or would you rather we play an icebreaker game?"

"You can share your whole life story if you like, but I wasn't going to ask. Figured that'd be a bit too personal, you know, since like you said we've only known each other for a few days," he said with a shrug. "But I wouldn't mind getting to know you better, my lady."

Isefel gave him a considering once-over. "Hm. Alright. But if you call me 'my lady' again I _will _stab you in the ribs." Cousland chuckled nervously, like he wasn't sure if she was kidding or not. Isefel did not feel particularly inclined to illuminate him. "We can start with some simply questions for now, I'm not quite in the mood for games."

"As you wish," He said, "So, have you lived in Denerim your whole life?"

"Of course. Farthest I've ever been from Denerim was the markets right outside the city walls," Isefel said. "My mother was a traveler, though. Not Dalish or anything like that, but she and her sister moved from town to town quite often. She didn't end up in Denerim until after the war with Orlais. I was raised on stories about her trips around the Ferelden countryside."

"Oh? Anywhere specific?"

"Mostly the Southron Hills and the Bannorn. In hindsight it was nothing truly special, just tales of days on the road, but as a child it all sounded magical. Getting chased by highwaymen, meeting a spooky witch in the woods, finding hidden rivers and secret caves…" Isefel kicked a loose stone across the cobbles of the Imperial Highway. "Actually living it… well, it's not quite so marvelous as my childhood imagination made it out to be. Mostly my feet hurt."

"I know, right? My kingdom for a horse!" Cousland chuckled. "Alright, your turn."

Isefel paused a moment, trying to think of a good question. "Okay. What's your name?" He simply blinked at her like he didn't understand the question. "Do you want me to guess? Is it something pretentious and embarrassing? Like Humphrey or Guthbert?"

"Maker, no," He said, nearly horrified by the thought. "Guthbert? I don't even think that's a real name."

"I can never be sure with you noble types, you could be named after your great-great-grandfather twice removed," she said with a shrug. "You introduced yourself with your family name. I still don't know your given name."

"Well, it's certainly not Guthbert or Humphrey," he said. "It's Peter. And I wasn't named for my great-great-grandfather twice removed—I'm also pretty sure that's not a thing—I was named for my uncle. But I prefer to use my family name."

"Hm. Shame. I liked Guthbert more," she snickered.

Cousland let out a long-suffering sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Maker, give me patience, because if you give me strength… alright, whatever. My turn to ask. You have any siblings?"

"No, but I grew up very close to my cousins. Two of them even moved in with my father and I after they each lost their parents, so in a way I grew up with two younger sisters," She said. Shianni had been with her and Father for nearly nine years now, and Tathas for the last six.

"Ah, I knew you were an older sibling type," he said.

"Hm. At a guess… you're the baby of your family?"

Cousland chuckled in a way that was almost guilty. "You got it. What gave it away?"

Isefel reached over and prodded a finger into his shoulder. "You seem like someone who pouts when he doesn't get his way."

"Hey! I mean, you're right, but hey!" He said with false offense. "Besides, I haven't really been the baby of the family since my nephew was born."

"How many older siblings did you have?" Isefel asked for her turn.

"Just the one. Fergus." Cousland said, eyes focusing on something distant and invisible. "He's at Ostagar right now with most of my family's forces. Just a few days ago I was arguing with my parents to let me go to the front with him… but now I almost feel like I'd rather be anywhere else."

"You wanted to go to Ostagar? Why? What changed?"

He didn't answer for a moment, and for a moment Isefel that she'd touched on too personal a topic.

"I didn't want to be left behind," he finally said, breathing it out like some shameful admission. "I didn't want him and Father to walk into danger without me, go into a fight where I couldn't fight to protect them. It was selfish and foolish to think that. Turns out I couldn't even protect my own family in my own home."

"Oh." Isefel was at a complete loss for words. She'd picked up pieces of context from his conversations with the others, but whatever Cousland had faced in his own recruiting was something more severe than she'd assumed.

Cousland shook his head, like he was trying to physically banish the gloom from himself. "Sorry. I don't mean to go one about it, and it's not something I need to be loading onto you anyways. I just… it still doesn't feel real."

"No, it's alright. I think I understand exactly what you mean." The pain in Cousland's eyes was one she counted as an old friend. "You… you lost someone, right? From your family?" His silence was plenty a confirmation. "That's not a hurt that will just go away if you ignore it. If you need to talk about it, it's okay."

Cousland twitched a shoulder in a sort of half-shrug. "Maybe. I think once I break the news to Fergus I'll be… better."

"Well, on the bright side, you will get to be there for your brother at Ostagar. That's something, right?" She said, trying to help him find some silver lining.

"Yeah. I suppose it is."

Isefel glanced back over her shoulder to check on the others. Edmund still studied his manuscript, but now had a single hand held outward, a glowing glyph flickering in place above his palm.

Liri had given up on her game of tripping the mage and was now rolling a single copper coin deftly over her knuckles in something like an effort to keep herself entertained, flipping it up occasionally and catching it with her other hand before repeating the motion and flipping it back.

She couldn't be certain, but it seemed Rosaya was lagging further behind than just a bit before. Her gaze was trained on the trees by the road, and her expression belied she was having some argument with herself.

She couldn't be thinking of running, could she? According to Duncan she was on a timer, and unaided she'd die. Certainly Rosaya understood that. But she had a look in her eye that Isefel was all too familiar with. She'd seen it in plenty of other people before, seen it in her Father after Mother's death, and saw it still lingering in Tathas.

It was a type of loneliness that lead to self-destruction.

The Blight wasn't the only thing plaguing Rosaya.

Perhaps it was something to do with the Dalish girls surface level similarity in appearance to her cousin, or maybe it was just because in that moment Rosaya looked so small and alone on that wide road, but Isefel decided right then that this young elf was now her responsibility.

Isefel slowed her pace, allowing herself to separate from the others and slowly fall in line with Rosaya. Cousland half-turned back to her, a question forming on his face, but it died and was replaced by an understanding in his eyes as he seemed to pick up what she was about.

"Yes, I'm fine," Rosaya said automatically as Isefel moved to the side of her not occupied by the wardog. "And no, I don't need to rest."

"I wasn't going to ask," Isefel said. She inspected the girl while trying not to appear like she was doing so—there were dark circles under her eyes that implied she'd not slept well the night before. Or likely the night before that. There was no need to ask—she was very obviously not fine.

"Then what do you want, flat-ear?" There was a familiar barb in her voice that practically made Isefel feel like she was back at home.

"I wanted to see how you were getting along with Lady," Isefel said, inclining her head towards the dog. The mabari held her gaze for a moment, and maybe it was just her reading too much into whatever intelligence the hound possessed, but for a moment they seemed to agree on a truce for the kids sake.

Rosaya quizzically glanced from Isefel to the Lady, off-put by the nearly random query. "She's been lovely. Our clan doesn't keep hounds, but we've visited with other clans that do. Is this dog—Lady—any good at hunting?"

This was good. Get her distracted on something other than her homesickness. "I wouldn't know. She's Cousland's, I'd ask him if you want to know." Rosaya's expression showed a visible level of hesitation. Maybe not, then. "Or you could ask Lady," she quickly proposed instead, "Mabari are very smart, or so I hear."

"Would you like to go hunting with me later?" she asked the dog slowly. There was a sweetness to Rosaya that belied her true nature beneath her current thorny front. Lady barked loudly in response, little stub-tail wagging wildly. A small, fleeting smile broke across Rosaya's face. "Yes, I imagine you're quite sick of trail rations. We'll see about finding a quail, that should be nice."

Isefel wondered idly how much of that Lady actually understood. Mabari were smarter than your average hound, for certain. It was what them made them such appealing pets, and also what made them so dangerous.

"Did you ever consider becoming Dalish, flat-ear?" Rosaya asked abruptly, like it was a question she had been holding in for a while.

"No," Isefel couldn't help but raise a brow at 'flat-ear.' She'd never heard that one before—usually the humans kept to the old classics, like 'rabbit' and 'knife-ear.' "Before we found you in the forest, I thought the Dalish didn't exists. My cousin Shianni always said that her father was Dalish, but I always thought that was just a daydream to replace the cruel reality of a man who walked out on her mother. I never believed your people existed."

Rosaya frowned, frustrated. "But you never thought to find out for yourself? You never wanted to escape? Surely no elf with any kind of self-respect could resign themselves to live like _that_."

"Escape what?" Isefel found herself curious of what exactly the Dalish had heard of the cities. "Escape my family? Escape the people who have surrounded, supported, and loved me my whole life? I thought you'd know that's not so easy as it might sound, having left your clan and all."

"No, the shemlen. The city. You must have hated it there."

Isefel shrugged. "I don't know. That's just the way life was, you know? And it's not so bad, most of the time. We all had each other in the alienage, we looked out for one another. I'd daydream sometimes of going on adventures around Ferelden… but there were always things more important." Like family, and protecting the people who couldn't protect themselves.

"How can you stand it? How can you flat-ears live with yourselves like that?" Irritation rubbed at her, the bite in her words building.

Because none of them ever knew there were other options. And as far as other options went, wandering the wilderness wasn't a lifestyle universally suited to everyone. But Isefel held those words back, opting for a gentler but equally honest response.

"You learned to deal with it, learned to live alongside the humans so that you too could live." That was a lesson her mother had drilled into her for years. One she tried to pass down to Tathas, though with only limited success.

Rosaya shook her head, folding her arms over her chest in a huff. "To compromise like that shows how far your people really have moved from the true way. Harhen Paivel was right—you've lost what makes you Elvhen."

Though there was a venom to the words designed to jab at her, Isefel only snickered and traced a finger over her ears idly. "I dunno—ears are still plenty sharp. Or did they get rounded down when I wasn't looking?"

Rosaya rolled her eyes, nostrils flaring. "That's not what I mean."

"Look, life's different for you Dalish out in the woods. There's an old elven proverb we city dwellers live by, goes like this: 'Pride doesn't put food on the table, so be whatever you need to be to make sure you and yours live to see another day.'"

"That's not a real proverb," Rosaya said, voice thick with accusation.

"How could you know for sure?" Isefel said, "We've lost much of our history, and much of our people's wisdom as well—it could totally have been a proverb in ancient times."

Rosaya threw up her arms, exasperated. "But it's not, you just made it up!" she said.

Isefel couldn't help but smile. Riled up and upset was definitely an improvement over downcast and depressed, even if just by a bit. "Well, I still think it counts. I'm an elf, it's wisdom, and I'm old—older than you, at least. Therefore, 'old elven proverb.'"

"_Nuva mar'av aria ma_."

"Can I get a translation on that? I know about ten elven words, and I didn't recognize any of those." It was probably less than ten, if she was being completely honest.

Rosaya let out a long-suffering sigh, looking down at Lady. "_Elena ma'dhrue min, dhar? Ash i'shan, a da'len i'eolas._"

"Oh, da'len! I know that one!" There was a curiosity in her now. Elven was rarely spoken in more than single words or phrases in the alienage, even by those who knew more of the language.

Isefel pestered Rosaya with the occasional question, which the Dalish girl would outright ignore in favor of carrying out a conversation with the mabari exclusively in elven. The dog probably didn't even understand the language either, but she seemed happy enough to be talked at. Hearing the language in use was incredible and beautiful, even if the words were probably being used to insult her to her face.

Again, she would rather have Rosaya irritated then solemn. At least this way she was doing something with all that negative energy she carried.

Duncan called for them to stop earlier in the evening than Isefel expected, but it made a sort of sense. They wanted to work through various assessments, trainings, and drills. They made camp away from the road again, this time nestling themselves in with the trees.

Rosaya was mostly cooled off from Isefel's prodding at her earlier, and only seemed half as thorny. Isefel helped Liri set up the tents and watched on curiously as Aothor took the Dalish girl to the side of the camp.

"Alright, a bow's your primary, correct?"

"No," Rosaya deadpanned, holding her bow out and resting an arrow against the string. "I actually prefer to use a massive hammer. This is just for aesthetic."

"Very funny," Aothor said, shaking his head and pointing some distance away. "See that large oak, about a hundred paces away? With the toadstools growing out of it? Fire off as many arrows as fast as you can. I'll tell you when to stop—I need to know how quick you can shoot."

Rosaya rolled a shoulder, reaching into her hip quiver and pulling more arrows into her draw hand before pulling back the one resting on the string. Archery was something Isefel had no familiarity with. Bows were large and generally hard to hide, after all.

The Dalish girl rested her hand against her cheek, taking her aim. "On your mark then, durgen'len."

Aothor gave the signal and Rosaya launched off a volley of arrows, exhausting all four arrows she held in her draw hand and even two more from a fresh handful before Aothor called time just a few seconds later. "Well, I can see the stories I hear about your peoples marksman ship aren't exaggerated," said the dwarf.

Isefel followed Aothor's gaze to the distant target tree. Six arrows in about as many seconds, each sticking out of the bark.

Rosaya, however, did not seem satisfied. "Do not let my poor speed color your view of my peoples skills. A true master Dalish hunter would likely have achieved double that number in the same time."

"Right. Because this is just you making them look bad, not showing off," Aothor said. It took a moment for Isefel, or the others as well, to realize that he was simply voicing for Liri, who was signing some way off to the side as she also watched. _"Don't worry, I'm sure you'll get plenty of chances to practice. There are plenty of darkspawn that need turning into pincushions."_

That was another thing they were going to need to get on top of. Isefel wanted to be able to understand the lady dwarf freely—they'd have to squeeze time into their travel days to start learning hand-speech.

This being Rosaya's first encounter with Liri's method of communication, she looked between the two dwarves with open confusion. "You can't talk? How come?"

Well, that was certainly direct. Unable to help herself, Isefel drew slightly nearer to them, wondering what the answer to the question she'd been curious about for a while was. Edmund and Cousland did similarly.

Liri only chuckled before opening her mouth wide. Isefel was just near enough to make out the complete lack of a tongue in the dwarf's mouth—at least the lack of the part needed to taste food or articulate words. That piece looked long carved out. That would explain why she still vocalized even if she didn't speak.

"_Stone, if you were all this curious, you could have just asked," _Liri said, rolling her eyes as she saw them all staring.

"So what happened, you try and sign up for the Silent Sisters?" Aothor asked with a sideways sort of smile.

"_Nah, they're a bit too uptight for me. Too many rules, you know? The eternal silence and special vows. Not a fan." _She said with a lazy shrug.

"Well… their loss, our gain," Edmund said.

"Indeed," Aothor said, picking up some pieces of wood as makeshift targets and turning back to Rosaya. "Alright, let's see how you do with moving targets."

Isefel pulled Edmund aside as Aothor resumed his evaluation of the Dalish girl—no time like the present to get the mage familiar with a blade. Edmund turned her short sword over in his hand as they stepped aside to start training. Even the way he held the blade was exceptionally unpracticed.

Well, at least he wouldn't have any bad habits to train out. He was a blank slate. She reached over and quickly corrected his grip before raising her ow blade.

"First thing's first—footwork." Isefel stood beside him, modeling proper posture and foot placement. Edmund shifted to match her. "This is the most basic and most important part of engaging in melee combat."

"Guess it won't matter how good I get at swinging a blade around if I trip over my own feet, huh?" He said, slowly mimicking the steps as she demonstrated them.

"Exactly," She said, reaching over and tapping his shoulder with the flat of her blade. "Hold your body more sideways—you want to make yourself as small a target as possible. Move your feet further apart. The idea is to be sturdy enough not to be knocked down, but not so rooted that you compromise agility."

Isefel showed him the proper footwork for pulling back and moving to the sides, moving slowly so he could follow along. He was a bit clumsy in the motions but eager to learn, and graceful when given correction.

"So…" She started, tapping his arm to remind him to keep his blade up, "You knew about Vaughan's attack." The topic hadn't come up again since that night in the tavern, given how busy they'd been with the Dalish situation, but Isefel had far from forgotten about it.

Edmund didn't look over at her as he replied. "Sort of."

"Would have loved to have had a heads up about that."

"Would have loved to have given one," He countered.

"And you found out how…?" Isefel found it hard to believe that his disrupting the wedding was something pre-planned at any large scale. Vaughan hadn't struck her as much of a schemer—he ran purely on the desires of the moment.

"Magic," he said with a shrug.

Isefel suppressed an eye roll, if only barely. "That's not a real answer. Look, I lost a friend in that palace. I almost lost family. I'm glad that you found out, and that you were able to help—if but a bit belatedly—but I feel like I need to understand what part you played in all that."

"Does it matter?" He asked, stilling his motions and facing her fully.

Isefel did similarly, now mirroring his posture. "What do you mean? Of course it does."

"No matter how I found out, I wanted to help stop it, or at least find a way to make it easier on you getting out of there in one piece with everyone else," he said evenly, "I think that's what matters—everything else shouldn't really be that much of an issue."

"Repeat that stance set again, blade up." She said, waving for him to resume the steps she'd shown him. "It seems like it is an issue. This is part of why you and Cousland don't get on, right?"

"Maybe. Mostly he's a stubborn prick who doesn't know when to let something go."

"And maybe you're a bit over secretive and irritating?"

Edmund chuckled, resuming the steps. "I guess that's one way to put it."

Isefel watching him repeat the set, only offering an occasional correction or adjustment for a while. Cousland was obviously suffering a recent loss. In the tavern he'd mentioned something about a betrayal, and whatever resentment he held towards the mage was related to all of that.

Edmund was obviously well meaning with his intentions—while he could occasionally look severe, the mage didn't seem to have a truly malicious bone in his body. But sometimes intentions alone weren't enough.

"Please, just tell me," she said, softer than before.

Edmund visibly hesitated, something like a self-argument crossing over his face. He turned away quickly, resuming the set. "I did tell you. Magic," he said, responding in equal tone.

Isefel huffed a sigh. If he wasn't going to tell her anymore, so be it. Perhaps she should just let it go—if he wanted to be any more forward about it later, it was on him now.

"Hm… I wonder if I could…" Edmund trailed off, eyes focused on the sword he held. A soft glow emanated from the hilt and the steel of the blade flashed brilliantly, swathed in golden flame.

Isefel stepped back as the heat licked at the air, but the fire remained tight on the blade, burning up the length of it like a torch. The mage laughed in triumph, testing his burning weapon with a few swings at open air. 

"I can't believe that worked! It actually worked!" He said with a childlike joy.

The words had barely left his mouth before a certain red-headed dwarf seemingly materialized at Edmund's side, a mace and dagger held in each hand with a wild grin on her face. No words were needed to understand exactly what she had in mind.

Isefel could only see this going poorly.

Liri held out her weapons, and after a second of concentration on the mage's part, both erupted with flames. She was absolutely delighted, tossing the now-flaming dagger over in her hand, deftly catching the non-burning handle though the fire licked at the air.

Liri dashed over to the main camp, sticking her mace into the small stack of firewood Cousland and Duncan had collected. The wood caught and began burning warmly. Liri looked around, like she was actively searching for things she could have sanction to burn.

Isefel shook her head at their antics. "Very cool, now put it out before you hurt yourselves."

"Relax, it's fine. Probably." The mage was holding the short sword with two hands now. "So, if this is a regular Flaming Blade, then what if I…" The flames around the blade burned brighter and smaller, more controlled, the hue shifting from golden to blue. It almost seemed like it was bonding into the steel.

Isefel's hesitations around Edmund's playing with fire were proven well founded when the blade began sparking. Whatever spell he was weaving seemed to go terribly wrong, fire exploding in time with a series of expletives from the startled mage as the blade flew forwards out of his hands. It spun in the air and sailed past her face by mere inches before sinking into the bark of a tree.

"Andraste's tits, what did you do?" Cousland asked, jaw slightly agape. Isefel couldn't tell if he was more irritated or surprised—couldn't decide on either for herself, for that matter.

"Ah… an experiment?" Edmund said, rubbing his neck sheepishly. She glanced at Liri—her weapons were extinguished, much to her visible disappointment. Smoke drifted off the mage but on the whole it seemed that he was unharmed.

The same, however, could not be said of her sword. With no small of effort she managed to pull it from the bark—the heat had warped the blade. Isefel pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath.

Slowly, she turned back to the mage. "What in the Maker's name were you thinking?"

"I was thinking a permanently flaming sword would be really cool," he said, voice small. "Kind of like… a lightsaber…"

Isefel sighed. "Do us all a favor, alright? Don't do any more 'experiments.'" She cast the damaged blade to the side in frustration. It was one she'd stolen from one of Vaughan's soldiers, so no real loss, but it was still an annoyance.

"Here, here," Cousland said in agreement. "Save it for the darkspawn."

"Right. I'm sorry, I just got carried away and I… I'm sorry." To his credit, Edmund did seem genuinely apologetic. Liri just looked still disappointed that her weapons weren't on fire anymore.

Isefel rolled a shoulder, trying to shake away the irritation. At this point, she was beginning to miss Tathas. It seemed she'd traded in one disaster individual for a whole host of them. "It's fine, but we won't resume blade work until we have an extra sword and you have learned not to set it unnecessarily on fire. Consider it a time-out."

"Yes, ma'am," said Edmund with a weak smile.

"What… Ancestors, what happened here?" Aothor said, having moved back to camp along with Rosaya, who held the corpse of a freshly-shot wild quail.

"An apparently large lapse in judgement," Duncan said, shaking his head. Though he was outwardly disapproving, there was a betraying fondness in his eyes.

"Well…" said Rosaya, holding up her quarry, "I brought dinner."

Rosaya sat quietly as the others around the fire spoke with each other over the meal. Mostly they poked fun at the shemlen mage for whatever magical mishap had occurred right before she and the durgen'len rejoined them.

The scorch marks on the ground and on a nearby tree gave her a pretty good picture. It seemed like the tower slaves were not quite as adept as Dalish mages. He'd apparently shown enough promise that Keeper Marethari had entrusted a rare spell of their people to him, but thus far Rosaya was less than convinced of his capabilities.

The durgen'len man seemed a militant sort of man, but she appreciated that it was apparently enough for him to know she was skilled with a bow, and that was that. She did not know much about his people and their customs, but he had a straightforward demeanor about him that was easy enough to understand.

The durgen'len woman was an interesting character, in that for all her silence she was one of the most expressive members of the party. For a while Rosaya feared that she was the only one unable to understand her, that this would be an embarrassing lack of knowledge on her part due to her different upbringing. That fear was quickly laid to rest as she observed the flat-ear and shemlen warrior looked to the durgen'len man for translations.

The shemlen warrior made several attempts to pull her into the conversation over dinner. Each time she purposefully failed to acknowledge him. Even if he had meant well in his trying to stall the raging villagers, the thought of Ferelden knights moving against her clan burned at her. It was not that she feared her clan could not kill them—she knew that they could. She feared that if she did, they might be pursued by more powerful forces. He meant well, but it still put her people in more danger, and she could not simply look past that.

His hound was easily the most enjoyable member of the party. Mostly because she did not feel the need to constantly enquire if she was "fine," or if she "needed to rest," or other such questions she received from the Grey Warden and the others. She didn't want any of them to think she was weak.

She still didn't know what to make of the Grey Warden. Keeper Marethari clearly held him in high regard. Perhaps he was a good man, for a shem, but being near him made the hair on her neck stand on end.

Rosaya shook the thoughts away and considered the flat-ear who sat beside her around the fire. The elders always spoke of their city cousins as downtrodden, helpless elves who'd lost their identities, that they cowered in the face of their shemlen oppressors. The city elf moved about the camp in relative silence, performing her tasks like a shadow. But it wasn't as if she did so out of nervousness of the shems—she spoke freely with the shemlen men, holding herself with the posture of an equal, even so far as to scold the shem mage multiple times for his carelessness.

It was terribly self-contradictory, she thought, and not at all what she was expecting of how a flat-ear would behave. Worse than that, she didn't seem to care much at all for what she'd lost or what she could have had.

"How are you feeling?" asked the shemlen mage as they started clearing away the dishes after supper.

She did not look up or acknowledge him—she'd heard that question nearly a dozen times over the course of the last two days, and always her answer was the same. "I'm fine." A subtle itch pressed at her skin. She ignored it.

"Great, that means that this spell works," He said, completely unbothered by her attempt at aloofness. "So, I think I've got it. If you start feeling like you might be getting worse again let me know and I'll take a crack at it."

Rosaya eyed the still scorched earth warily. The mage seemed to realize what she was thinking without her having to say it.

"Don't worry, I was just screwing around earlier. Got a dumb idea and ran with it without thinking. Nothing about this spell requires fire or explosives," he said, holding up the scrolls. He glanced down at the pages uncertainly, brow furrowed. "At least, unless I've grossly mis-read this… which could totally happen… why are the 'r and 'd' sounds drawn so similarly…? And why are there three ways to write 't? That doesn't make any sense, if you ask me.'"

Rosaya glanced from him to the others. Both durgen'len just shrugged and went back to what they were doing before—apparently this was either not unusual behavior, or they were just as puzzled as she was.

"It's probably just the handwriting," he added quickly with a nervous chuckle, continuing on. "I'll admit this isn't any kind of magic I'm used to—I'm not a healer. But I feel confident enough to try."

"There's no need," Rosaya said, turning back to the dishes she continued to pack away. "I feel fine."

"Then let us maintain that," added the Grey Warden. Rosaya snapped her head toward him to see the old shem looking at her with a brow furrowed in concern. "It is better to try and keep you in a stable condition than wait for you to deteriorate and need critical amounts of care again."

Much as it grated at her to submit to help from shemlen, she had conceded that he had a point. She did not want to get to the point where she was too weak to look after herself.

"Alright, first thing's first… I need to prime your body with a series of these symbols…"

Rosaya laid back quietly, watching the mage work. There was no fluidity or grace to his casting—he lacked the practiced elegance the Keeper and Merrill had when working their magic.

The shem mage pressed the glowing symbols into her skin and she felt a strange tingle buzz throughout her body, just this side of painful. Her heartrate suddenly dropped, beating nearly at half speed. She felt tired, drowsy even…

"Okay, so far so good," said the mage. His voice sounded distant and muted, like she was hearing him from underwater. The others were gathering close, watching closely as a soft glow encased her body, but somehow she was only distantly aware of them.

"Please try not to set her on fire," said the flat-ear, half joking and half seriously concerned.

"Do you even know what you're doing?" came the shem warriors heavily incredulous query. "Because from where I'm standing at least, it really doesn't look like it."

The shem mage rolled his eyes but looked back down at his scrolls briefly. "You know what would be helpful? Silence, Cousland. Silence. Ever heard of it?"

He scoffed loudly. "Piss up a rope. You're always muttering about something to yourself, even in your sleep."

"Wait, really? What've I said?"

"Please, both of you shut up," the durgen'len man said tiredly. "Edmund, keep working on Rosaya. Liri, Cousland, Isefel, with me. We're working on squad formations before it gets too dark."

She heard something else above the blurred ambient conversation and banter of the others. There was a song in her head, a melody she'd never heard before yet somehow something about it was painfully familiar. It was quiet—for all she knew it could have been playing softly in her subconscious and she simply hadn't noticed. No matter how she strained her ears she couldn't hear it any clearer. She wanted to hear more.

Something changed. The shem mage began applying layers of the magic over each other, weaving a net of light inside her. It burned. It burned, seared, singed at the core of her being. Though the sun had set and dusk settled over the forest, still she closed her eyes to shield them from the brightness of the magic.

The burning net of light caught around something small and dark inside her, something so subtle she hadn't noticed it was there… but it must have been all along.

Rosaya tensed physically at the sensation. The shadow stretched out inside her was pulled and cornered, shrinking to the size of a small seed. For a single, perfect moment, she felt relaxed. Her heart and soul stilled, and there was a peace inside her she hadn't felt in what felt like an eternity.

For a second she had a point of clarity—and then the net broke.

The shadow seeped through the holes in the weave, latching onto it and corroding it with a noxious darkness. The clarity in her soul was replaced by chaos and _noise_. Her own pain and heartache amplified, swirling in tandem with a song inside of herself as pain pulsed through her.

But the sound of it was hollow, lacking, just a few notes from a greater symphony. She became sharply aware of more music outside of herself—the Grey Warden, who had moved to seat himself nearby… though her eyes remained closed, she could feel his closeness. A sound echoed off of him that harmonized with her own notes, something altered but similar.

More than the taint in her blood, more than the shadows in her mind, more than the harmony or anything else, what pierced her most was the single, discordant, painfully disruptive note.

She opened her eyes. Her vision cleared with laser focus, tunneling in on the shemlen mage as one single thought crystalized in her mind.

_Kill it, crush it, destroy it._

The impulse, so sudden, so insistent, was one that she could not bring herself to ignore. She felt completely outside of herself. Without really registering her actions she sat bolt upright and reached out to the mage.

"Rosaya!" the Grey Warden called out, voice barely audible above the sounds echoing in her skull. There were hands on her shoulder, holding her back, but she pulled against, everything in her pushing to silence the discordant noise.

The shem mage caught her wrist, holding her away from him as his hands glowed even brighter. "I can't do it all myself, Mahariel. You have to fight it too."

A single coherent thought whispered in the back of her mind below all the noise. This wasn't her. None of this, none of this bloodthirst, the aggression, the darkness… this wasn't a part of who she was.

The shadows inside her—the taint, growing, spreading, taking over… she pulled it back, willing it into a smaller shape as the mage weaved together a new web of light. It was nothing more than unassuming and soft glow over her skin, but in her minds eye together they cornered the shadows in a box and slammed the lid shut.

The net wrapped around it, keeping the lid closed as the shadows attempted to seep out the edges. It would not hold forever. But it would hold for now.

Something more than healing bled into her from the mage. Anxiety that buzzed in panic like a hornet's nest, a distant but still terrible dread, and loneliness like a close companion, all of it hitting her like a flood.

She wasn't sure who pulled away first—herself or the mage—but they both let go and fell back from one another. Everything stopped abruptly, the music, the harmony, the discord, the flood. Without the sounds, all that she was left with was silence and a dull ache. She was sweating and breathing heavily, as if she'd just run for miles, and rather than calm within she carried a deep agitation. The shem mage seemed in a similar state.

"Are you alright?" asked the Grey Warden. Rosaya looked up to see the bearded shemlen looking down at her—he must have caught her as she fell back.

"Let go of me," she said roughly, pulling away and resting for a moment on all fours on the forest floor. She slowly cast her gaze out—the durgen'len and the others were beginning to head over from where they had been training. It was much darker now; it felt like only a moment had passed, but obviously it had been much longer than that that she laid in treatment. "I do not want you fussing over me, shem."

"You must keep yourself calm," The Grey Warden said, with all the same wisdom and counsel in his voice as Harhen Paivel when he was imparting his famous bits of advice. "The taint inside you likely reacts to your emotional state—the more riled up you become, the more active it is, and the harder it is for you to hold back." The old shem turned his focus to the mage. "Edmund, what happened?"

"It worked. I get why Marethari had Merrill and I supporting—that was… a lot." Edmund said. His voice was strained and slightly winded. "But I was sloppy; I very nearly made it worse. She might not have been feeling it earlier because she's adjusting to it, but the taint's more active than before, more aggressive than it was when I worked on her with Marethari. Rosaya's own will is holding it back more than the magic. Without both, it wouldn't be working."

"I see. I can sense a decrease in the activity of the Blight inside her, though for it's small size it does seem somehow… more agitated. We will need to keep her monitored closely as we travel. Hopefully the treatments hold out long enough for the cure at Ostagar."

Rosaya breathed out a sound between a laugh and a huff. "Forgive me if I'm not optimistic. If the Keeper's magic could not cure me, then I doubt anything you shems possess could do any better." She curled her fists into her hands, fingernails breaking into her palm in an effort to keep from scratching at something that tingled beneath her skin. Not yet an itch again, but it was already pressing in that direction.

"You don't have any other options, kid," said the durgen'len, now standing by the fire with the others, working at removing his gear. Rosaya bristled at the diminutive. Even among strangers, she was still seen as a child. "Either you join the Grey Wardens, or you die. You should count yourself lucky—most in your situation wouldn't get the chance."

"I don't want this!" She cried out. She was on her feet now, though she did not recall standing. "If it wasn't for this sickness I wouldn't even be here. I _still_ don't want to be here—at least the rest of you had a choice!"

The shemlen warrior laughed humorlessly, half turning and casting his arms out to gesture to the others. "Wake up and take a look around you, Rosaya. _None_ of us had a choice."

Rosaya stepped back, almost feeling physically struck by the words. They were staring at her, they were all staring at her. She felt so small before their eyes.

Everything inside her hurt so much more than it did before. Not just her body—if it was her body she could have ignored it. Everything she'd been holding back since she left her clan, the homesickness, the heartbreak, the loneliness… all of it welled up inside her such that she feared she might burst at the seams.

She didn't realize she'd begun moving until she was already racing through the trees into the shadows of the night, away from the camp. Vaguely she heard voices calling after her, but over the pounding of blood and rush of wind in her ears she couldn't hear them.

Even if she kept moving and escaped them, there would be no running from the ache inside her.

It would be so easy, so perfectly easy to let go. She could feel a dark shadow still swirling inside her. Though it was subdued and small from the mage's spell, still it lulled her close with promises of comfort and release.

At least then she wouldn't hurt so much. She slipped away into the forest—she knew how to move without leaving a trail, the others would never find her—find someplace to rest and let the shadow cover her until she vanished.

With a misstep rather unbefitting of a Dalish raised in the woods she found herself tripping on her own feet. She spilled forwards, catching herself as she impacted the earth and fallen leaves. Rosaya pulled herself half-heartedly upwards, carrying forward just briefly until she found a fallen tree. Giving in to the ache in her muscles, she sat on it and lowered her head into her arms.

She wondered if Tamlen was in the Beyond waiting for her. A soft music filled her mind again… not violent and loud like before when the mage had worked to contain it, but something soft that resonated with her soul so deeply she found herself tempted to hum along.

A rhythmic migraine pounded at the base of her skull. She could let down her walls of strength, release the corruption from the box she contained it in… let it pull her gently away.

The soft crunch of footfalls on fallen leaves alerted her to one of the others coming up behind her. They were not moving quickly, just walking, but still there was an urgency she felt as they approached. She didn't know if she could face any of them, not after that.

"Leave me alone," Rosaya said, not bothering to look up at the approaching footsteps.

The footsteps did not stop, and Rosaya peeked through her arms to see the flat-ear standing not far to the side. "I can't do that. Not while I'm not sure of what you're going to do."

"Nothing, I'm not going to do anything," she bit back. The itch beneath her skin burned, her throat closed as her eyes threatened tears. "I just… I just wish I could disappear."

The older elf sat on the log as well, just beyond arm's reach. For a while there was only silence between them, broken only by Rosaya's ragged breaths and the nighttime sounds of the forest.

"Your friend… what would he do, were your roles reversed?"

Rosaya looked up sharply at the mention of Tamlen. The flat-ear wasn't looking at her—single eye instead trained up at the branches above. "He would keep moving, keep fighting. Tamlen never gave up, no matter what," she said, swallowing hard. "I could never be as strong or brave, I never have been, not without him. It should have been him that survived. Not me."

"We can't ever know that for sure. But what we can know for sure is that even if Tamlen is gone, his strength is still here. It's in you—you carry that piece of him now," said Isefel, finally turning her head and meeting her gaze. "And if you give up you insult his memory."

"How would you know?" Rosaya asked weakly.

The city elf smiled in the dark. "The people we've loved—the ones we've lost—never truly leave us. So long as we live on and carry their memory a piece of them gets to live on alongside us. I carry my own memories of lost loved ones with me. I'm certain that the others do too. In that, I don't think you're too different from the others in that way. You might have more in common with them than you think."

"They're shemlen! I have nothing in common with them. Everything our people have suffered is because of them. To live alongside them is to spit on everything our ancestors stood for."

"Maybe. But these men have done right by us, at least so far. I'm not asking you to forget the wounds from history, or anything you've personally suffered… just that you allow them a chance to be judged by their own actions," Isefel said, half-glancing back towards those still gathered in the camp. "At least for Duncan. Neither of us would be alive today without him."

Neither of them? "He saved you?"

"I was about to be hauled off to prison, where I probably wouldn't have lasted the day. Fort Drakon isn't exactly known for its hospitality." Isefel shrugged casually. "Maybe you don't become bosom companions with the others, but you could at least start using their names instead of 'shemlen' and 'durgen'len.'"

Rosaya flushed. Had she really been calling them that? She'd hardly noticed. Creators, where had her head been the last few days? She barely even felt like herself, and now she was making her people look bad through poor manners. "I… I suppose I shouldn't be calling you flat-ear then, should I? Ir abelas, Isefel."

Isefel laughed, which was not the reaction she had been expecting. "I've been called worse than that by meaner folk than you. But thank you. Your apology is accepted."

"With everything that's happened, and this… thing… inside me… I barely even feel like myself anymore. I feel like I'm living outside of myself… does that make sense?" The words poured out of her mouth before she could stop them, even if she wanted to. "I don't know who I am apart from Tamlen and my clan. I just feel so lost."

"It's okay if you're lost. It won't last forever. You'll find yourself again, and when you do I think you'll have learned more about yourself and be stronger than before. And even if you're lost, you're not alone. If nothing else… I'm here."

"I… ma serannas. I suppose there is comfort in that. To know I don't have to be alone." She glanced back over her should in the direction of the camp. "I will admit, I'm surprised the others haven't followed out here." She'd thought for sure they'd been chasing after her, at least for a while.

Isefel shrugged, rising to her feet. "They started to, but I thought it would be better if I came and got you on my own, so I told them to go back to camp. I've got a bit of practice than them in things like this than the others, I think." Isefel began walking back through the forest, an unspoken expectation raised that Rosaya would follow.

Rosaya only lingered for a moment before returning, gaze turned upwards towards the stars.

_I carry Tamlen's strength._

_I have to fight too._

_I can't give up hope._

"I'm sorry, Tamlen," she whispered, soft enough that none heard her but the trees. "I won't give up anymore."

For the first time in days, she heard neither music nor the painful itch in her skin.

She would not submit to the taint inside her. She would master it, and she would not lose herself.


	17. To Make A Warden Grey (Part 2)

62

The final days of travel brought them closer to Ostagar. Duncan had set out with the intention of collecting one, possibly two additional recruits. Now he had six.

He'd defiantly gotten more than he'd bargained for. Though given the threat they were facing, it was likely for the best. These recruits might be just what Ferelden needs.

Orzammar's loss was his gain—Aothor's experience and leadership capabilities were shining through in the way he drilled with the others, offering encouragement and challenge to them where it was needed and applying his sharp mind to strategy. There were other Senior Wardens who could take over once the Calling claimed him, but Duncan would not be surprised if the former prince found himself bearing the title of Commander again someday.

With whatever divide existed between Aothor and Liri supposedly healed there was one less point of tension Duncan needed to worry about. He did not know what words they exchanged, but he was satisfied that the two dwarves seemed content to put their differences behind them. In fact, they even seemed to be getting along well, in so much that Aothor seemed to find her generally chaotic nature at least as amusing as it was troublesome, and she no longer attempted to ignore his existence.

Liri, along with Edmund and Aothor, had even begun showing the basics of hand-speech to the others as they travelled during the day. Liri insisted they start with the most important vocabulary words, and according to her the most important vocabulary was various obscenities. If nothing else, it severed to improve humors across the group. Duncan made sure to supplement the expletives with actually useful signs and words. It would be some time before any of them mastered it, but they were starting off strong.

Isefel's interpersonal skills were proving to be of monumental benefit in pulling together the others and she was quickly becoming something like a glue that held them together. She shared Liri's familiarity with the harshness of an impoverished life, connected with Rosaya through the differences and similarities of the cultures of their race, and had confidence enough to stand on equal ground with Aothor and Cousland. There was some exasperation on her part towards Edmund about the flaming-sword fiasco, but Duncan suspected it stemmed more from a concern for his wellbeing and the safety of the others than straightforward irritation.

With Isefel having taken Rosaya under her wing, Duncan found that most of his worries for the younger elf were being assured. Though she was still quiet and rarely conversed with the others, when she did so it was with much less bite than before. She was faring much better than he'd even dared to hope— they stopped twice each day to allow Edmund to re-cast Marethari's spell on her, which always seemed to improve her condition a bit. While the mage was getting more comfortable with the spell, the more it was used the less overall effect it seemed to have. He could still hear the song of the taint in her veins, but the fact that she still had the strength to walk and the coherency to banter with the others spoke of an unbound inner strength and will.

Rosaya was not the only one faring much better than before—Cousland was also progressing with his general attitude towards the others and his own recruitment. The fall of Highever was certainly the lowest moment of his life—it would be some time before he truly moved on from it. The former noble was coming to terms with his new life and building relationships with those around him, or at least making an effort at it. While he still seemed to have a quick-fused temperament, he had a knack for evaluating situations and individuals quickly for what they truly were that gave him a clarity and direction.

Whereas his hound was a point of contention between him and Isefel, Lady was a bonding element between Cousland and Rosaya. The Dalish elf began taking Lady with her in the evenings and always returned to the camp with a fresh kill for dinner. In addition to hunting fresh meat, Rosaya had a knack for foraging herbs both medicinal and flavorful that helped to improve the quality of their trail rations, which also served to improve the mood of the group after a long day of travel and to endear her to the others even more.

While Cousland was beginning to form bonds with the other recruits, there was still one very obvious sore spot in the form of a certain mage.

Though they all moved together as a very tight group, Edmund managed to find nearly impressive ways to avoid Cousland. Cousland's issues with how Highever was handled continued to butt up against Edmund's unapologetic view of the matter, as well as the mage's generally secretive nature and Cousland's desire for transparency. Whenever they spoke to one another it was icy and brief and always two steps away from a full-blown argument over even the smallest of matters as even their personalities came into conflict.

Duncan understood Edmund's hesitancy to share what he'd told him with the others—the mage likely doubted how much they'd believe him. But sooner rather than later he'd need to come clean.

Duncan considered what Edmund told him about Ostagar. No battle was ever a certain victory—there was always a chance for failure. Ostagar's only hope was to last out long enough for additional forces to join the fight, but if the darkspawn drove at them in mass numbers…

Even if he wanted to remain optimistic, he needed to keep the mages words in mind. Edmund had been right in all of his accounts so far, the five additional recruits a testament to his accuracy. If he was correct on this matter as well, perhaps they could take the forewarning and at least come up with some sort of alternative plan.

It would come down to convincing the King and his advisors, and whether or not he would be able to do that was something he could not determine until he saw the situation at the front for himself.

They began descending into the pass at the edge of the wilds, and on the distant horizon the shape of the fortress began to come into view. Perched across the divide, covered on all sides by soldiers and surrounded by an army camp below, Ostagar was bustling and in the throes of preparation.

"That… is a big tower," Isefel said, staring up at the peak of the Tower of Ishal rising above the tree line as the descended into the pass.

"The Tevinter Imperium built Ostagar long ago to prevent the Wilders from invading the northern lowlands," said Duncan, "It is fitting we make our stand here, even if we face a different foe within that forest. The king's forces have clashed with the darkspawn several times, but here is where the bulk of the horde will show itself."

He noticed a change in his recruits as they approached—resolve and determination, and perhaps just a little bit of nerves.

Or maybe a lot of nerves, judging by how Edmund constantly twisted his staff over in his hand as they got closer and the way Rosaya seemed to shrink at the sight of so many heavily armed and armored humans milling about the space.

"Well… I guess this is it. One way or another," Edmund said as they crossed the first bridge to the heart of the ruin-turned-army camp. "Feels like it's been a long time coming."

"Indeed," Duncan said, offering him and the Dalish elf what he hoped to be an assuring smile. "The Blight must be stopped here and now. If it spreads to the north, Ferelden will fall."

Looking back to the arched bridge, Duncan could see a man approaching them with a small encourage of guards, golden armor glinting in the morning light.

"Ho there, Duncan!" he called out, raising his arm in greeting, as if somehow any of them could have missed him in his ornate attire.

"King Cailan? I didn't expect—"

"A royal welcome?" Cailan chuckled at Duncan's obvious surprise, moving his hand to Duncan's shoulder as he clasped the young king similarly. "I was beginning to worry you'd miss all the fun!"

Duncan sighed but could not help the smile pulling at his face. "Not if I could help it, your Majesty."

"Then I'll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all. Glorious!" Cailen turned to the odd batch of recruits he'd been politely pretending to not notice before. "I'd heard from the other Wardens you found some promising recruits. I take it this is them?"

"Allow me to introduce you, your Majesty…"

Cailan shrugged, moving to stand by Duncan so he stood before the recruits directly. "There's no need to be so formal, Duncan. We'll be shedding blood together after all. Greetings, friends. It's a pleasure to meet you all—the Grey Wardens are desperate to bolster their numbers, and I, for one am glad to help them. Might I know your names?"

"Atrast vala, King Cailan," said Aothor, bowing in the traditional dwarven fashion. "I am glad to see you are well. I am Aothor, and this is Liri Brosca, of Orzammar." Liri gave the king an appraising sort of look before offering a casual salute.

Cailan chuckled and returned the salute. "It is good to see honorable stout folk outside of Orzammar."

"Honorable, hm?" Aothor mused, stroking his beard with a wry smile. "How much do you know about dwarves, your Majesty?"

"Some, though certainly not as much as I would like. You'll have to regale me with some tales of your people—I'll have the finest dwarven brew brought up from the palace cellars… after we've dealt with the Blight, of course," Cailan said with a small laugh. "I have been to Orzammar. King Endrin invited my father to a Grand Proving, long ago. How does Endrin far these days?"

The smile vanished quickly from Aothor. "I am uncertain, your Majesty. Last I saw the king he was well, but… the city is experiencing some complicated times."

"_On the plus side, crime rates are down. Because I killed a lot of the criminals,"_ said Liri with a shrug, earning some well-deserved looks of curiosity and confusion from many of the others around them. _"Though honestly the fighting's probably gotten worse… plunk one big boss, and three other small ones scrap over the old territory… eh, not my problem anymore."_ It occurred to Duncan that aside from Edmund, none of the others knew the dwarves recruitment stories. Something to be addressed later, if they got the chance.

"Well… that certainly sounds like a story worth hearing once we bring the brew out," Cailan said as he regained his composure. He turned to the rest and looked them over quickly. "I can see by your staff that you hail from the Circle of Magi. I trust you have some spells to help in the coming battle?"

"Oh, maybe one or two. I'm sure I'll find some way to be useful." Edmund said with a shrug, before seeming to remember himself and dipping into a clumsy bow. "Edmund, by the way. Edmund Amell."

"Pleased to meet you. We have too few mages here, and another is always welcome. Magic will no doubt be of great use against masses of the darkspawn."

"Just tell everyone to steer clear if you see this one starting to cast," Isefel added with a small laugh. "I would hate for our soldiers to get caught in the resulting explosions." The recruits shared a small laugh at his expense, and Edmund just rolled his eyes.

"Yes, very funny. I've never actually hit anyone on our side, you know. If anything I've only proven that I'm quite efficient in the roasting-darkspawn-department."

"Also the roasting-swords-department," added Isefel with a grin.

"I'm never going to live that down, am I?" Edmund said, directing his question more to the answerless heavens than to the group around him.

"_Nope. Or the sewers. That… that was really bad," _said Liri.

"Hey, I wasn't the only one involved in that. If you're going to give me shit about it, you could at least include them too," said the mage, gesturing to Aothor and Cousland.

Cousland just shrugged. It wasn't hard to see that he seemed to be enjoying the mage's building irritation. "Sure, but neither of us walked straight into a river while also wearing full gear."

Edmund ran a hand over his face, muttering various creative expletives under his breath. "Guys, can we not air out all the dumb shit I've done over the last week in front of the king? I mean, timing. Really."

A quick look to the monarch in question showed that Cailan was obviously and understandably confused, while simultaneously wearing the expression of a man trying his best not to laugh. "Well, I can see you've already had your fair share of adventures. I'm sure if you asked my wife about the times we got ourselves into trouble she could relay similar anecdotes of absurdity," he said, no longer trying to hide the smile on his face. "I see you are elves, friends. Might I know your names?"

Rosaya quirked a brow, hands falling to her hips. "I highly doubt it, but anything is possible."

If Duncan had known that Cailan would be greeting them personally, he would have warned Rosaya and prepared her for the encounter. But apparently when suddenly face to face with a human monarch, her default was snark. Which was something he would not necessarily have expected from the normally withdrawn elf.

The others seemed equally as surprised as him, but Cailan was quick to laugh it off, thankfully unoffended and wholly amused. "You've got yourself a lively one, Duncan. And here I thought all Wardens were stodgy priests! From where do you hail? One of our Alienages?"

Duncan cringed and the rest of his recruits shifted uncomfortably as Rosaya's previously neutral expression soured. Things had been going so well, too.

"No," she said stiffly, straightening her posture as she stared down the king. "I am Rosaya Mahariel of Clan Sabrae. My people are not yours—my people are Dalish, and we do not bow to human lords."

"Dalish?" Cailan said, furrowing his brow as he took her in. For a moment they just looked at one another, but then Cailan inclined his head to her in a short bow. "Of course. Forgive me, my lady, if I have caused offense. It is an honor to meet a huntress of the Dalish. I hear your people possess remarkable skill and honor."

Rosaya blinked, clearly taken aback by the kings response. "I… I will admit I was unsure… of how you and your people would view mine. I am surprised to hear you think of us as such. Glad, but surprised. I thought most shems considered the Dalish to be dangerous vagrants."

"To be fair, your people can be a bit…" Cailan hesitated as he selected his words. "… stand-offish. Not that I blame them, of course. I tell you this: you are most welcome here. The Grey Wardens will benefit greatly with you amongst them, I am sure of it."

"We will see," she said with a shrug, looking away.

Cailan turned to the second elf carefully. "And… would you be Dalish as well, or…?"

Isefel chuckled as she dipped into a brief bow. "No such luck, your Majesty. Isefel Tabris from the Alienage in Denerim."

"Tell me, how is it there? My guards all but forbid me going there."

"I suspect there is a reason for that. Several, in fact," Isefel said, shaking her head. "Your Majesty, if we are going to speak of the condition of the Alienage, I'm afraid it will have to be a longer conversation than we have time for at the moment. It's not something easily summed up other than to simply say it's not good."

"There are events in Denerim you should be made aware of regarding the nobility and the treatment of the elves," Duncan added, reinserting himself to the conversation. In recent days he hadn't been as frustrated in a situation as he had been in Denerim. If there was something to be done to prevent such events from happening again…

Cailan frowned deeply. "I see. Then I would like to speak to you at length about this matter after the war is attended to. Please, do not hesitate to bring your concerns to my attention. I know you believe I do not care, but I truly do. Soon, things will change for your people. For the better, if I have my way. The darkspawn threat must come first, but I feel that what you have to say is something I need to hear. And you… you are Bryce's youngest, are you not? I don't think we've ever actually met."

Cousland nodded as the king turned his attention his way, bowing appropriately to his monarch. "Indeed, Your Majesty. I believe I may have seen you a few times when visiting the court with my family, but we've never been properly introduced. Peter Cousland, and it is an honor to finally meet you, though I wish the circumstances were… different. I bring urgent news from Highever."

"Is it about your father? Your brother has already arrived with Highever's men, but we are still waiting for Teyrn Cousland. Fergus has been concerned about him." There was a tension to Cailan as he spoke—no doubt he noticed the muscle working in Cousland's jaw as the man visibly worked to keep himself composed.

"He isn't coming," Cousland said, the words barely audible as they passed from him. "Our castle was taken, and he died in the attack."

Cailen started, blinking as he processed the words. "Dead!? What do you mean?" The king turned wildly to Duncan as he searched for clarity. "Duncan, do you know anything about this?"

"Teyrn Cousland and his wife are dead, your Majesty," Duncan said gravely. He noted the widened eyes of the two elves of the entourage as they were also first hearing of this event, though neither said anything. "Arl Howe has shown himself a traitor and overtaken Highever Castle. Had we not escaped, he would have killed us and told you any story he wished."

"Lady Landra and her son Dairren were among those slaughtered, along with her handmaid Iona and a great many other innocents," Cousland continued, something haunted in his eyes. "I have no doubt that he continues to terrorize not only anyone left in the castle, but also the residents of the town."

"I… I can scarcely believe it," Cailan turned away from them, running a hand through his hair and staring out into the distance. He pivoted back to them, determination and drive replacing the shock. "How could he think he would get away with such treachery!? As soon as we are done here, I will turn my army north and bring Howe to justice. You have my word."

"Is there nothing to be done sooner?"

Cailan shook his head, an apology in his eyes. "I am sure Howe is aware his actions will cost him his life, should they come to light as they have. But I'll need a considerable number of troops to bring him to justice and right now the darkspawn must be dealt with. Rest assured, the time will come."

"I… I suppose that will do," Cousland said, taking a breath to still himself before bowing to the king again. "Thank you, your Majesty."

"No doubt you wish to see your brother." Cailan cast his gaze out from them towards the expanse of the forest beyond the ruins. "Unfortunately, he and his men are scouting in the Wilds."

"Do you know when he will return?"

"I apologize, for I cannot predict when he will return. But you will see him once the battle is over, I'm certain. I do wish there was more I could do. All I can suggest is that you vent your grief against the darkspawn for the time being."

Lady let out a long whine, also looking out to the trees. Duncan suspected that both the mabari and her master were using no small amount of self-control to keep themselves from bolting into the trees to start searching.

A runner from the camp approached their gathering and spoke briefly in hushed tones with the king. The runner took off, and when the man in golden armor turned back to them there was a distinct irritation about his demeanor. "I'm sorry to cut this short, but I should return to my tent. No doubt Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies."

"Your uncle sends his greetings and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week," said Duncan, moving to stand before his recruits again. His stay in Redcliffe had been brief and right before his visit to the Circle, but Duncan had no doubt Arl Eamon's forces would be of significant benefit to the current troops.

But his words seemed to have the same effect on the king as water off a duck's back. "Ha! Eamon just wants in on the glory." The intense demeanor from a moment ago, replaced with something more jovial and confident. "We've won three battles against these monsters and this one should be no different."

"I didn't realize things were going so well," said Aothor, neutral save for a single arched brow.

"I'm not even sure this is a true Blight. There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, but alas, we've seen no sign of an Archdemon."

Duncan folded his arms as the young king began to pace. "Disappointed, your Majesty?

"I'd hoped for a war like in the tales! A king riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god…" He sighed, shaking his head forlornly. "… but I suppose this will have to do. I must go before Loghain sends out a search party. Farewell, Grey Wardens!"

Duncan bowed to the king as he turned with his entourage and departed, and a few of his recruits did similarly.

"Well… never thought I'd ever meet the king, but here we are," Isefel said, watching as Cailan and his guards vanished into the bustle of the ruins. "I hope he's the kind who makes good on his word. For all our sakes."

"He is an honorable man—I believe he intends to fulfil his words to each of you." said Duncan, leading his recruits across the bridge and towards the fortress. "And what the king said is true. We've won several battles against the darkspawn here,"

"If there hasn't been significant threat on the field, then maybe this isn't a true Blight after all, just a large raid." Cousland offered as they began moving.

Duncan shook his head. "So some believe, but I disagree. Despite the victories so far, the darkspawn horde grows stronger every day. By now, they look to outnumber us. I know there is an Archdemon behind this. But I cannot ask the king to act based solely on my feeling."

"_Why not?"_ Liri asked, catching up to walk at his side not occupied by Aothor. _"He seems to like you and the Grey Wardens a lot. He might listen."_

"Yet not enough to wait for reinforcements from the Grey Wardens of Orlais," Duncan said as they entered the main of the camp. "King Cailan seems to believe our legend alone makes him invulnerable."

Aothor frowned, folding his arms over his chest. "That's a problem. And I can't exactly be reassured when I hear the king using the word 'bore' in the same sentence as 'strategies.' If he's a glory hound bent on heroism, this is going to go very badly for a lot of people."

"He's a young ruler, and eager to prove himself, but I don't think glory's the only thing in his head," said Cousland, scanning the camp around them. "Morale is high. He's likely trying to keep it that way. And while maybe he's a bit over eager, I think he realizes he has to make do with what's currently available to him. I don't think the darkspawn will politely wait until we're ready for them, after all."

"Still, if it is possible at all, I believe we should hold off until we have a larger force. We sent a call out west to the Grey Wardens of Orlais, but it will be many days before they can join us." He had already sent letters when the raids first started—he would have expected a raven back by now. Even without his sending word, surely all the southern Wardens were beginning to notice a change in the darkspawn, if not actively hearing the Archdemon as he did. Surely aid would come. "Our numbers in Ferelden are too few. We must do what we can and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference. To that end, we should proceed with the Joining ritual without delay."

"A hot meal might be nice, first," said Rosaya.

Duncan chuckled. "I agree. I will have someone see to preparing a meal before we attend to the ritual."

"What ritual?" Isefel asked.

"Every recruit must go through a secret ritual we call the Joining in order to become a Grey Warden." Duncan turned to Rosaya and extended his senses towards the young elf—no longer was the taint inside her so tightly contained as it had been on their journey. "The Joining is what will cure you of the suffering your tainted blood surely brings you. If it had been possible, I would have done it before now."

"And this cure is… some kind of immunity, right?" She asked. She was sharp to remember—he'd given Marethari a cursory idea of the cure in order to get her to agree, and Rosaya had clearly kept it in mind.

"It is a secret… and not something so simple as an antidote," he said, careful with his words. Edmund and Aothor already knew what the Joining entailed, and at this rate he wouldn't be shocked if the Dalish girl pieced it together for herself. "Suffice it to say that the Joining is what will make all of you Grey Wardens."

"Well then, let's have it done," Aothor said as they came to stop by the fire outside of the Grey Warden's command tent. "What do you need us to do, Commander?"

"I have a few matters I must see to and a few tasks for the rest of you, but otherwise you may feel free to see yourselves around the camp. All I ask is that you do not leave it for now," Duncan said, clasping his hands behind his back as he turned to them. "The first matter is that of equipment. Each of you should speak with the quartermaster and acquire more suitable gear. After the Joining is complete you will be outfitted with Grey Warden uniforms."

"I feel some upgrades might be a bit overdue," Isefel said, pulling at her sleeves.

"Indeed. Secondly, there are two other Grey Warden Recruits also in this camp: Ser Jory and Daveth. Isefel, Cousland, I would like you to seek them out and bring them here. Finally, there is another Grey Warden in the main part of the camp as well by the name of Alistair. Aothor, Liri, I would like for the both of you to find him and let him know that we will be beginning soon."

"What about us?" Edmund asked, gesturing to himself and the Dalish elf.

"Rosaya, your directive is to rest as much as possible." The taint's effect was still isolated, but it was beginning to spread once again despite the mage casting the healing spell on her but a few hours ago. The Joining would need to be performed by the days end, and no later. The young elf bristled but nodded—while she clearly did not want to be shown concern, she was becoming more accepting of the reality of her condition. "Edmund, I have an errand I'd like you to run for me, but there are a few matters I must check on first. The rest of you are dismissed."

The four filtered into the camp. Their various tasks should not take much time, and hopefully they could begin with the preparations for the ritual before the day grew too long.

Edmund and Rosaya followed after him as he moved from the fire into his own command tent. The space was sparce and covered in a thin layer of dust as most everything within had been largely untouched in his absence from the front. Without his presence there, the other Wardens tended to congregate with the army.

He gestured for Rosaya to take a seat in one of the chairs at the edge of the tent. The Dalish elf did so, taking at a small knife and working away idly at the wood of her bow. Duncan sat himself at the desk, glancing over the stacks of reports and messages collected on the surface.

"Help me sort through these," he said, portioning off a section and passing it to Edmund. He turned to the rest of the papers, glancing through them in something of a hurry.

Most of them were copies of reports from different groups that had scouted the wilds. So far they had been unsuccessful in locating the Deep Roads entrances the darkspawn were using to emerge from below ground.

From the scout's information they could get a general idea of where the bulk of the horde gathered. Estimated numbers of the enemy force continued to rise, as did his concern. Attempting to bring the fight to the darkspawn in the woods would lead to a slaughter. Funneling them out of the trees and towards the fort was still their best option.

Other reports were of the battles that had transpired in his absence from the front. An update on positionings, a record of casualties, and tracking supplies. All these things were well and good, but he had yet to find what he was looking for.

"There's an update from Sam here," Edmund said after a while. "The three of them got back to the camp earlier this week. All the other Wardens are still accounted for, though apparently one took a bad hit in the last battle and won't be fit for combat until the mages tend to his wounds."

"I see," Duncan said, pausing briefly as he though. "Have you found any word from Orlais? Or Weisshaupt?"

"Ahh…" The mage haphazardly flipped through his stack of papers. "No, not in my stack. Most of this is about requisitions. Why are they sending you these reports, anyways? I though Ferelden would have their own people for this stuff."

"As one of the commanding officers here it is important for me to be kept in the loop regarding supplies and field updates, even though my jurisdiction is not over the main troops. The paperwork is a necessary evil in this line of work." Duncan pressed against his temple, trying to ward off a building headache.

He sent his raven to the Orlesian Warden headquarters at Montsimmard over a month ago with a request for aid. There had been plenty of time for a reply to be sent, but they'd received no word back.

"Duncan…?"

Duncan did not acknowledge Edmund as he spoke, instead taking parchment and ink from the drawer and setting to write. Whatever the reason, or the chance, the situation was growing too dire for their few number of Wardens to handle. He needed to make sure the Wardens of Orlais received and heeded his message.

"What's going? Lose something" Rosaya asked, pausing her carving momentarily.

"No, it's the fact that what I seek isn't here at all. I would have expected at least a reply from the other Wardens abroad by now, but there's nothing." He folded the letter and sealed it. "At best, the raven got lost with my request to them, or the raven back with their reply didn't make it. At worst, my request was ignored. But since the other Wardens should be growing aware of the situation, I will assume it is the former."

Perhaps it was not as bad as he feared. But leaving it to chance didn't sit well with him. With Edmund's previous warnings turning in his mind, he decided he needed to make sure other Wardens were headed to Ferelden.

He turned to Edmund, holding the letter out to him. "Take this to Oliver. He should be with the other Wardens in the army camp."

"What is it?" He asked, taking it and sticking it in his bag. The mage was contemplative, gears in his own mind turning.

"A contingency," Duncan said. "Go quickly and tell them I expect them to act without delay."

Something about his expression shifted as he seemed to decide something for himself, but he said nothing but "Yes sir," as he turned and left the tent.

"Well…" Rosaya started, putting away her knife and slinging her bow back over her shoulder. "I guess things aren't going the way you'd hoped."

"Very few things do, in times such as this. But that is why I make an effort to stay adaptable," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm a bit weary, but there's not much I can do about that. And the noise of the camp is a bit…" she paused like she was searching for the right words. "Obnoxious."

Distantly hounds howled and armored footfalls clanked as squads marched by and captains shouted orders. "Yes, I can imagine it can be a bit much for one unfamiliar with such environments," said Duncan.

Rosaya sighed, but nodded. "You said it yourself—we have to be adaptable." she said, rising to her feet. "I'm going to find some lunch, and maybe look at what sort of gear is available."

"I can send for someone to bring food," Duncan said, checking his senses on her again. She was becoming restless, and so was the taint. "You really should rest as much as you can. Besides, I imagine the camp will be a bit overwhelming."

"All the more reason to get myself oriented," She countered, a challenge in her eyes. "I appreciate your concern Duncan… but honestly if I stay sitting in one place, I may very well lose my mind."

He could order her to remain. She might even heed it. Yet, he suspected if he ordered her to remain stationary, she might slip away all the same. Dalish were ones prone to wander, after all.

"Very well. But before you go…" Duncan's hands fell to his ebony dagger, unstrapping it from his belt. It was no longer helping with the progression of his own taint, but there was a possibility it could help with her. "Take this with you. It is enchanted against the Blight. Though it's magic has weakened over time, it should still have some beneficial effect."

She gingerly lifted the dagger into her own hands. She unsheathed it briefly, examining the blade. "It is a beautiful blade. Are you sure? I can't imagine this is something you part with easily."

"I do not want you to have left your clan and survived this long only for you to fall before the Joining can be completed. And you will get more use of it than I, I am sure," he said with a casual wave of his hand. "Go see to your equipment and meal. I'll trust you to know your own limits."

Rosaya smiled at that, nodding in acknowledgement of his words. She belted the dagger and ducked out of the tent.

Duncan looked back to the stacks reports on his own desk. Most of it was nothing he needed to do anything more with than look over, but he selected a few scout reports and folded them into his own bag in case he needed to reference them later.

With his recruits off around the camp, Duncan found that he was alone with his thoughts for the first time in a long while. He felt strangely at a loss. The calm before the coming battle was always strange, a barely holding peace before it all shattered. Based on the reports they could expect a large surge of darkspawn to hit the fort this evening. There would not be much time.

Duncan headed for the exit, determined to find the king and his advisors to go over strategy and possible contingency plans in case the worst occurred.

He left the tent, but the mission died in his steps as he saw an officer stomping in his direction, dragging a resisting Liri along by the arm. It was nearly impressive—they'd barely been in the camp a half hour, and already she'd found a way to stir up trouble.

Maker, what now?

The quartermaster didn't have anything better than the armor she had picked up from the Warden compound in Orzammar, but Liri did grab an extra stabby-looking dagger. Those were usually the best kind of dagger, in her opinion.

The others were mostly through getting fitted with better gear. Cousland was the only one who didn't get anything new, since his armor and weapons were the quality typically given to nobles like him, but he did pick up some extra potions and medical supplies.

The quartermaster had somehow mistaken Isefel for their groups servant when they showed up—how he'd completely missed the various stabbing implements attached to her person, she'd never quite puzzle out. Isefel corrected him with more grace than Liri would have, were their roles reversed.

The resulting encounter turned a bit awkward as the quarter carefully selected his words while showing them the equipment. Isefel was now properly armored at least, with heavy leathers and light chain worn under the dark coat she still elected to wear overtop. Liri couldn't blame her, it looked damn good. If she had a snazzy coat like that she'd wear it all the time too.

Something to add to the shopping list for the future, maybe.

It took the quartermaster some time to find gear that would properly fit Aothor. There weren't many dwarves in the camp, and those that were seemed to be working in the smithy with weapon and armor repairs. Hopefully Duncan had sent word ahead to the Wardens about the fact that they were dwarves so that when they actually got their Warden uniforms it would all fit right.

"Well, it might not be the most comfortable, but it'll stop a sword same as anything else," said the quartermaster with a huff as he finished equipping the prince.

Aothor briefly inspected his grieves. "Not the most cohesive set, but I suppose it could be worse."

"_Don't worry, I'm sure the darkspawn won't mind if your outfit isn't very fashion forward."_

"But why bother killing darkspawn if you can't do it in style?" Aothor said, completely deadpan, before glancing back to the quartermaster. "That will be all for now," he said as he turned and began leading them away.

"Right. Well, I'll just be here," said the quartermaster, poorly concealing just how badly he wanted them to go.

"_Is it just me, or did that guy seem like he was hiding something?"_ Liri asked as they walked away.

"What makes you think that?" Aothor asked.

Liri shrugged, glancing back over her shoulder at where the quartermaster was assisting another set of soldiers. _"He just seemed jumpy in the face of unexpected authority figures."_ Which was weird, because from her point of view she was just about the opposite of an authority. But Aothor and Cousland did have a certain presence about them, she supposed. Freaking noble boys. _"Besides, I've been a criminal basically my whole life. You learn to recognize the type that has something to hide."_

"Probably contraband goods," Cousland said, a bit more casually than she would have expected from how uptight he generally seemed. "Booze, smoke, anything the men typically want but can't access while they're on duty."

"Should we report him?" Aothor wondered.

Cousland shook his head. "It's not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, though he could be punished if he's caught. These soldiers are facing darkspawn. I say if they want to get a little buzz during the down time, let them. Morale would take a hit otherwise."

"I could do with a bit of 'morale' myself, honestly," said Isefel, also looking back towards the quartermaster. "I could probably convince him to give us access to his stock."

"_Think you can get him to? He didn't seem too fond of us,"_ said Liri.

Isefel flashed a dangerous sort of grin. "I can be very persuasive." Without further prompting from any of them, she sauntered back towards the quartermaster.

The three of them shared a glance. "So… is she going to seduce him, or threaten him, or what…? It was kind of ambiguous." Cousland wondered aloud.

"I'd just as soon leave it a mystery." Aothor shook his head, pulling absently at his beard. "We have actual jobs to be doing. I guess Isefel's going to be distracted by whatever she plans on doing for a bit, but in the meantime we should try and find the Warden and Warden Recruits Duncan mentioned."

"Right," Cousland said, back on task. "The trouble is, Duncan didn't give us anything to go on but their names. Which means we're pretty much stuck asking around until we find them. I know of Ser Jory by reputation so I might be able to find him, but I haven't the foggiest about the others."

"That'll be tedious, but you're right. We'll cover more ground if we split up," Aothor sighed, then glanced to Liri. "I guess you should just stick with me for now."

"_I dunno, we could write their names on a sign and I could just walk up to people until I find who we're looking for."_ she suggested, mostly joking. _"Or I'll just stay with you. That works too, I guess."_

"Alright, I guess that's settled. We'll meet back at the fire in front of the Grey Warden command tent in an hour, agreed?"

The three of them exchanged nods and then they were off.

"_You know, it would have been nice if Duncan had at least given us descriptions to go off of,"_ Liri said and she and Aothor weaved their way through a cluster of human soldiers.

"Well, we know that they're men, and that they're probably human," Aothor glanced around them and sighed. "Which are the two least helpful descriptors in an environment like this."

At least the humans around them weren't shooting judgmental looks their way the way they did while she was in Denerim. It was easier to blend in with the bustle of the camp and most probably saw they were armed and assumed they were here to fight in some capacity or another.

There were a few elves moving through the crowd. Most of them looked like the ones she'd seen in the alienage, arms laden with gear as they shuffled along the edges of the crowd with their heads bowed. It was easy to see what made them different from Rosayas people—that kid probably wouldn't be caught dead running deliveries for humans.

She hoped the Dalish elf made it for whatever it was Duncan was cooking up for them. When she wasn't silently judging the people around her, she was actually kind of fun. If nothing else, it was funny to watch her fumbling attempts at making nice with the humans.

"Honestly surprised it was Isefel that went back for the booze and not you," Aothor mused. "Seems like you'd find that more interesting than helping me search around the camp."

"_I mean, you're right. It would be more fun_," Liri said with a small smirk. _"But I don't drink, so it's not something I'm actually interested in doing."_

Aothor's brows climbed with something like amusement. "You don't drink? Are you quite sure you're a dwarf?"

"_Oh no, you've found me out! I am actually just a very short human! My cover is blown!"_ she said dramatically.

"I knew you couldn't be a proper dwarf. You haven't even sworn by the left ballsack of your Ancestors or anything. It's on me for not noticing the signs," he chuckled. "I suppose it's not any of my business. I was just curious, that's all."

"_It's fine,"_ she said with a shrug. _"So, this Joining business… what do you think it's all about?"_

He was quiet for a while, thoughtful. "I think there are some very good reasons they don't just tell us what it is. Perhaps the truth of what we're about the face that would deter volunteers and recruits, were it something more widely known."

Well, that just sounded like an awful downer. She couldn't say she really knew anything about Wardens, save that they killed darkspawn. And everyone knew that about Wardens. The rest was just a giant question mark.

"_What are the chances that it's actually not a spooky ritual and instead silly team-building exercises and trust-falls?"_

"Fairly low, but I'm not eliminating any possibilities," he mused with a low chuckle. "If it involves trust-falls, don't worry—I'll make sure to catch you."

Liri couldn't help but smirk. _"Funny, cause I'd let you drop right to the floor."_

Aothor rolled his eyes. "The comradery is touching. Really, it is."

"_Someone's gotta keep you on your toes, Princey."_

Aothor's grin vanished abruptly, but before Liri could ask what bothered him he pulled aside a squad leader and began asking about the Warden they were trying to find. Apparently he was met with a dead end, because he moved on to another group and repeated his questioning.

It didn't seem like anyone was sure of where the Warden was. A scout said he thought he'd seen the Warden by the mess, but by the time they got there one of the cooks said they'd seen him head off towards the kennels, and one of the soldiers there said he'd seen the Warden get chastised by a Chantry Sister and get sent deeper into the ruin.

On the whole, it felt a bit like they were being given the run-around. And to top it all off, several times humans who weren't paying attention literally tripped over them. It was a bit of a mess. She hoped the others were having more luck than they were.

They spotted a Chantry Sister, likely on her way to deliver a message to a congregation of soldiers or something, and Aothor pulled her aside to figure out if she knew where their Warden was. Liri held back—there was no need for her to be involved in the conversation really, and something else along the edge of the area caught her attention.

There was a man in a cage. He was about the most miserable person she'd seen since coming to the surface, and she'd seen some pretty unhappy people. Unable to help her curiosity, she slipped away from the former prince and over to the cage.

"Huh. Someone finally comes and talks to the lone prisoner. I don't suppose you've come to sentence me?"

What about her gave people the impression she carried any authority to do things like sentence prisoners? It was actually a bit flattering, even if she didn't understand it.

Liri just shook her head. The caged man sighed, leaning his head against the bars.

"I don't suppose you have any kindness in you? All I want is some food and water. They haven't fed me since they locked me up, and I'm starving."

Starving their prisoners? That was straight-up carta style. Though, on a cursory inspection, the prisoner didn't seem to have any signs of torture on his body. Maybe not as carta style as she thought.

She eyed the lock on the cage with a questioning look, gesturing for him to explain what he was doing in there anyways.

He seemed to get the gist easy enough. "I'm a deserter. Or so they think. I bet there's no arguing them out of that, though. Armies are funny that way," he said with a half-hearted scoff. Liri raised a brow, waiting for him to continue. After a few moments of staring at one another he sighed and continued on. "I wasn't deserting. But when you catch someone sneaking around camp in the middle of the night, what else are you gonna think? But it doesn't matter. All I want is some food and water."

She didn't doubt that. Liri could count his ribs.

Aothor joined at her side, apparently finished with whatever conversation he'd been having with the priestess. "So if you weren't deserting, what _were_ you doing sneaking around?" Aothor asked, brow raised.

"Oh, I would have deserted eventually. Just not then. I was stealing, not sneaking." He said nonchalantly. Liri liked this guy's style. "I got one of those wizards drunk and took his key. It belongs to a chest they got here full of magical treasures. In fact, I still have it. Not like I can use it anymore anyways, but I'd trade you for some food and water."

"They didn't take it from you when you were arrested?"

"I swallowed it," the prisoner admitted somewhat sheepishly. "It has since… passed back into my possession."

Aothor had the decency to only look mildly disgusted, but Liri just grinned. A classic trick. She'd used it once or twice herself to hold onto lockpicks after getting arrested. Good times, good times.

"Do we really have time to be spending on this?" Aothor asked aside to her.

Liri shrugged. _"Doesn't hurt to do something nice for the poor guy. If he's gonne die, he should at least die with a full stomach."_ She made a mental note to come back later and get this guy out of the cage. _"You get any leads on that Alistair guy?"_

"Yes. Apparently the Grand Cleric sent him with a message to the mages on the north side of the ruin, toward the mages station," he said with a nod.

"_You can head that way,"_ she said, _"I'll grab this guy some food and catch up to you. It'll take, like, five minutes."_

Aothor pulled at his beard but nodded. "Alright. Don't take too long, we need to make sure we get back to Duncan as soon as possible."

Liri waved him off before turning to the prisoner.

"You could try asking the guard for the rest of his meal—he's still got some left, I saw him put it in his coat," he said, pointing to where a guard stood lazily on duty just a few yards away. He looked more like he was napping on his feet than actually keeping watch, completely unaware of her presence.

She grinned—this would be easy.

Getting the loaf of bread out of his pocket was child's play, a simple reach and lift. For extra measure she took her dagger and cut the strap of his canteen and slipped it off his body. She was actually a bit disappointed at how easy it was.

Liri turned the half-eaten loaf over in her hand as she returned to the cage. Little skills like that had kept her from starving most of her life. Funny how even after supposedly leaving that life behind those tricks were still coming in handy.

The prisoner looked up at her approach, a hopefulness shining in his eyes. Liri passed the bread and water through the bars, and the man nearly looked faint from relief. "Much obliged. May Andraste herself rain blessings upon you." The words barely left his mouth before he all but inhaled most of the bread. "And, as I mentioned, here's the key." He placed the key into her waiting hand. Use it in good health, eh?"

Liri snickered, pocketing the key. She turned away as the prisoner began guzzling water and made her way back into the camp the way Aothor had gone. The chest would probably be worth checking out—if it had magical shit in it, Edmund would probably be interested in the contents. If nothing else she was plenty curious herself.

Finding the mages would be easy enough. She'd spotted the tell-tale glow from their tents as she and Aothor crisscrossed the ruin earlier. She didn't find the chest she was after among their tents, but rather in a sequestered corner away from most anything else.

Problematically, there was a right next to it, almost practically on top of it, staring dead-eyed at the world around him. No way she'd be able to get into it with him standing here. Resolving to come back later, Liri turned away.

Even though the mage's crate had to be put on hold, it might still be interesting to see if there were any actual pockets around the camp with valuable contents in them. She spotted a couple worthwhile marks, and now it was time to brush up on her skills.

Mostly she targeted men pushing through crowds or individuals moving or dealing with equipment, people preoccupied and easy to slip around unnoticed. Before long, Liri had a decent collection of silver growing in her own pockets. She even slipped an entire belt off of one poor officer as he struggled with moving a large crate. Not much of value in the attached pouches, but the leather itself was of fine quality.

Liri really shouldn't have pressed her luck. She especially shouldn't have gone for one of the off-duty kings guards, but the interesting key she saw him pocket got her kind of curious. Someone on an important team like that was bound to have access to some valuable stuff, after all.

In hindsight, she should have quit while she was ahead, done the wise thing and gone to catch up to Aothor.

But since when was doing the wise thing any fun?

It was a kind of embarrassing blunder to make. She angled her hand wrong as she tried to surreptitiously slip her hand into his coat, inadvertently tugging down on the cloth. She barely managed to pull away as the man turned around, but for a heartbeat their eyes locked and his expression shifted as he realized what she was trying to do.

Like any good thief would do when caught, Liri ducked under a passing cart and bolted, mentally cursing to herself. Leske was right—she never knew when to quit, and it always landed her into trouble somehow.

She ducked out of sight briefly but she couldn't stay hidden forever. She thought she'd be able to slip away into the busyness of the camp, but she underestimated just how much a dwarven woman with bright red hair would stick out in a human army.

Liri emerged from cover and was debating whether she should go and find Aothor or just get back to Duncan when a pair of humans she didn't recognize came up on either side of her. Neither was one she'd tried to steal from before, but her failed mark must have spread the word. By the time she realized they were after her she only had a hand on her dagger before one landed a swift kick to her gut, knocking both the air from her lungs and her body to the ground.

"You sure this is the one Elric mentioned, captain?" asked the one who kicked her as she struggled to get to her feet.

The captain grabbed onto her arms before she could do much more than regain her balance. "Not many other dwarves in the camp, much less dwarf women. Unless she's got a twin running around somewhere, I'd say this is our thief." Liri pulled pack and kicked at his legs, causing him to swear loudly, but he didn't let go. It was a shame he was so tall—her legs weren't really long enough to kick him in the dick. "Shit! Lieutenant, bind her hands."

"Penalty for theft is a lot steeper than you look like you can afford," the lieutenant sneered as tied her hands with ropes. Liri had been tied up enough times in her life where this wasn't really an issue—she knew how to get out of a bind. He brandished a knife when he was done, and suddenly Liri was reminded of Jarvia. "You know what we do to thieves in these parts, dwarf? Hands come off at the wrist. Bet you wished you'd kept your filthy fingers to yourself now, eh?"

That… would be problematic in more ways than one. Shit. She started twisting her hands in the restraints, inching them towards her dagger. Man, she was really out of practice with escaping.

"Hold on—I saw her arrive earlier. She's with the Wardens, one of their newest members." Said the captain, holding up a hand to stop his companion.

"So?"

"So, we don't have the authority to deal with the situation," he huffed, shaking his head. "Maker, what a pain. Take her over to the Warden Commander. We have to clear it through him first."

Duncan wasn't even that far—the Warden's tent was right around the corner from where they stood, and as chance would happen the Commander was exiting it at just that moment. Surprise quickly turned to resignment and then careful neutrality as he saw their approach.

Liri didn't think people got kicked out of the Wardens for theft, but suddenly she had her doubts.

"She one of yours, Warden?" The lieutenant all but growled the words.

"I'll ask you just this once to release my recruit, sir. Otherwise you may find yourself with a blade in your knee." Duncan said stiffly. The lieutenant looked down abruptly, realizing that Liri had just gotten a hold on her dagger and mostly freed herself from the restrains. The captain released his grip on her, but cast a withering look her way. She still felt tempted to stab him in the kneecaps. "Now, what is this about?"

"Well, your _recruit_ attempted to steal. And from a member of the kings guard, no less. You are aware of the severity of this offense, yes?" he said, puffing himself up in a self-important way. What an ass.

Duncan remained carefully neutral, but his eyes flickered to her in something that was either amusement or disappointment. She wasn't entirely sure it wasn't both. "I'm sure there is another explanation."

"No there's not. Our man caught her with her hand in his pocket."

"Careful. You are talking about a Grey Warden. I would trust her word over your man. In any event, I can vouch for the good conduct of all the Grey Wardens here. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Warden Commander." The man was so red in the face she wouldn't have been surprised if it popped like a grape. With one more disparaging look her way, the soldier offered a begrudging salute of affirmation and stormed away.

Duncan pinched the bridge of his nose like he was trying to physically hold back a headache and sighed heavily. Liri nearly had the decency to be ashamed. Nearly.

"It appears I need to say something to you," he said finally, turning to her with his hands clasped behind his back. "You are a worthy and skilled recruit, and I well know of your talent with sleight of hand. That is a good thing."

Liri raised a brow. Not the turn she was expecting the lecture to take. _"Really? And here I was bracing myself."_

"It has already served us well, such as in the case of Highever. Grey Wardens use a diverse range of skills and tools to accomplish their missions. But the law is very hard on thieves. And Ferelden still bears mistrust towards our order, so practice these skills with caution," he said. "Your standing as a Warden will not always help you."

Liri found it curious that he wasn't outright telling her to stop. _"I've gotta practice. These pockets are a lot higher up than what I'm used to."_

Always the one to defy expectations, Duncan smiled. "Of course. Just… don't get caught."

Liri chuckled, resting a hand in her pocket briefly where two keys rested. Just because she got caught didn't mean she didn't get away with what she was after.

Isefel had not expected to find Rosaya at the quartermaster's station when she returned there, but there she stood, glaring the man down as he barked at her.

"Where's my armor? I was expecting it hours ago. And why are you dressed so preposterously?"

Isefel quickened her pace. What Rosaya was doing up and around the camp when she'd specifically been told by Duncan to rest she didn't know, but the way things were going, that wasn't her priority—making sure that she didn't get arrested for murdering the human was.

Rosaya folded her arms over her chest, head cocked to the side. "Unless you're trying to sell me a better set of gear, I don't particularly think my manner of dress is any of your business, shem." There was a dangerous tone in her voice, but the human was either unaffected or simply unaware of it.

"How dare you talk back to me, you knife-eared wench—" He stopped mid rant as Isefel came to stop at Rosaya's side, deflating slightly. "Oh, you again. What do you want?"

"I simply want to see to it that my fellow Grey Warden is able to acquire the goods she needs," Isefel said, perhaps annunciating their title a bit more than was necessary, but her patience for this man was running a bit thin.

"You're…?" The quartermaster blinked, looking back at Rosaya as if he was actually just now seeing her. Irritation briefly crossed his face before he quickly slapped on the artificial smile standard for those who worked in sales. "Yes, of course! Please forgive my rudeness, there are just so many elves running about, and you all look the same so I, erm…"

The human continued to dig a deeper pit for himself with that one, and as he seemed to realize as the words left his mouth. When he had done something similar to her earlier it was slightly more understandable. She had been an elf quietly accompanying a human man and some dwarves—it was the natural assumption many would make. But nothing about Rosaya, from her features to the style of her garb, matched any of the other elves in the camp.

"… it's simply been so hectic! I never thought…" Never thought that one elf could be a Grey Warden, let alone two, was the likely continuation of that thought. "Please, pardon my terrible manners. I am just the quartermaster, no one special…"

Rosaya scoffed, rolling her eyes. "If you can't even bother to know what your servants look like, perhaps you aren't paying enough attention."

"Yes, of course. You're very right. Did you… come to look at some arms and armor, then?"

They didn't spend long at the quartermasters stall, barely long enough for the quartermaster to hand Rosaya a quiver full of arrows and some pieces of armor before she stormed away from the makeshift storefront.

With the quartermaster as riled up and desperate for them to leave him alone as he was, Isefel doubted she would be able to just ask him nicely for any contraband goods he was holding onto. So she followed Rosaya as she headed to an empty bench and began sorting through the gear.

"You didn't stab him. Good job," Isefel offered as Rosaya fit a pair of protective gloves over her hands.

Rosaya rolled her eyes. "Please. I do know how to use self-control—I wasn't going to stab him. Not unless he did something first to deserve it."

"I hope you haven't had to deal with much like that around here," she said, concerned.

The younger elf shook her head. "He was the worst of it. I've gotten some weird looks, but most people seem to look right through me like I'm not right there. It's… odd. Truth be told, the confrontation was nearly a welcome change."

Isefel sighed. "I'm afraid it tends to be that way a lot. We're nearly invisible to them unless they want something from us—which often has its perks. There's a lot you can get away with when people don't realize you exist. But there are a lot of humans who just won't take us seriously."

"I just… I can't believe so many of our people willingly work for men like _that_." Disgust basically dripped off of her words as she spoke. "I see them everywhere, too—elves who run around from human to human getting yelled at and all but stepped on. It's infuriating."

"Not many are afforded other options. Sovereigns don't grow on trees, you know." She really was planning on asking the quartermaster nicely for access to his other stock, but another more satisfying idea was forming in her mind. "What do you say we lighten the load of his wares a bit?"

Rosaya raised a brow questioningly. "I thought you said we should try and play nice with the humans."

"That's still true. We need to do our part to not be antagonistic, but if we let ourselves be doormats a lot of them will just walk all over us, like how you pointed out," she said with a nod. "I was raised on the policy of 'do no harm but take no shit.' It's a difficult balance, but with assholes like that I think it's more than fair to cause him a bit of trouble."

"'Do no harm but take no shit?' is that one of your old elven proverbs?'" Rosaya mused.

"You know it," Isefel grinned. "I'm curious—how would you actually say that in elven?"

The Dalish elf paused for a moment, considering. "I think the closest equivalent would be _tel'ea tuaun or'nuem, i'te'ver etunash. _It captures the same sentiment."

"Nice, I'll try and remember that for next time. It sounds much more impressive that way." Isefel said as she looked back at the quartermasters set up thoughtfully.

"So, getting back at the quartermaster. A bit petty, but I'm here for it. What did you have in mind?"

"You see the crates set off to the side from the rest of the stock?" she asked, indicating them with a finger. "The unmarked ones. Purposefully set out of the way. That's probably where he has the good stuff stashed. Hidden in plain sight from anyone who he doesn't want to know about it, easily accessible so he can sell it at a moment's notice to those in the know."

Rosaya nodded along as she spoke. "What do you think he's holding on to?"

"I'm guessing food that's better than standard rations and drink with enough kick to get soldiers mind of the darkspawn. At least, that's what Cousland assumed he's carrying," said Isefel.

Rosaya folded her arms, not particularly enthused. "Really? That's your plan? Grab a couple bottles of alcohol and some snacks?"

"He probably makes a lot of money off of those goods. They're comforts from home soldiers can't get here and might be willing to pay an arm and a leg for. Every bottle we lift is less money that ends up in his pocket," Isefel said. "But yeah, that's all I've got, unless you have anything to add.

The Dalish elf was quiet for a moment as she thought. "You see those armor stands? The leg supports holding them up only stay stable if they're spread at that angle. Loosen or adjust them otherwise and they fall over." Rosaya rummaged through her bag briefly before producing a roll of thin twine and offering it to her. "You talk to him, keep him busy. I'll slip around the rubble and grab some goods from the crates, and on my way out I'll rig the set the trap. The next time he interacts with it it'll all come crashing down like a row of dominoes. Ultimately harmless, but it's sure to ruin his day."

"So it won't just be theft we'll get tagged for it we're caught, but also sabotage?" Isefel mused. She made a mental note to make sure Rosaya and Tathas never got the chance to meet—Rosaya might not have the same malicious streak Tathas did, but she didn't want to witness what their crafty natures might concoct together. Scratch that—between Rosaya's traps and Liri's apparent bomb-making hobby, they were already in for problems eventually.

Rosaya rolled her eyes. "He called me a knife-eared wench, and was probably about to go on to worse. If that's how he regards us just imagine what he treats his staff like when no one else is around? Frankly, he should count himself lucky a few missing goods and a simple trap is all the retribution he's facing."

That, she couldn't really argue with. And as long as they saved it for darkspawn and racists assholes, Isefel supposed a little bit of chaos was fine. Besides, it was a damn good idea. "Fair enough. I'll get him talking, put some pressure on him—he seems to get tunnel vision when he's angry. Wait for an opening. I'll keep him busy until you're clear."

Rosaya gave a thumbs up and without started towards the edge of the wall. Isefel tracked her carefully as she walked—the Dalish would have to climb over some rubble and a few stacks of equipment, but hopefully the huntress knew how to keep quiet.

Otherwise they were about to get in a whole lot of trouble over a really dumb thing.

Isefel marched over the quartermaster, chin jutted and arms crossed, ready to be a problem. "Excuse me? You sold me defective equipment. I demand a full refund."

"What? Are you daft? It's all perfectly good gear. Military grade, up to codes and everything," he said defensively.

"Then how do you explain how loose this strap is?" Isefel demanded, waving a bracer in front of his face. From the corner of her eye she could see Rosaya began making her way around the far side of his set up. So far, so good. "It practically falls right off. Something like that isn't just poor craftsmanship, it's a hazard."

The quartermaster folded his arms and huffed. "Well, that's hardly my fault, is it? If you've got a problem, take it up with the smithy. Not like I craft this junk." The quartermaster started to turn back, thoroughly done with her, right as Rosaya began climbing over some rubble.

Isefel stepped closer to the man, raising her voice in an attempt to keep his attention. "So you admit it? You admit that you sold me defective junk?"

It worked, thankfully, and he turned back to her in irritation. "Maker—no!" he denied. Rosaya ducked back down behind displays of equipment, safely back out of sight. "I'm telling you, there's nothing wrong with it. Besides, I don't do refunds."

"That's absurd! My life—the lives of all these soldiers—are on the line, and you don't even have the decency to provide suitable equipment." She folded her arms, looking down at him with nothing but disappointment. Nothing to get a human riled up like being looked down on by an elf. "A loose brace or a poorly made grieve can make the difference between life and death for a soldier, and we're risking it all against the darkspawn. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

She could not deny that a small part of her was deeply enjoying this. Experience had taught her that it was often simpler and wiser to leave men like him be, as trying to interact with them on level ground was an exhausting and futile experience… but still, it was just a bit gratifying to be able to give him grief like this.

She held her breath. From the corner of her eye she could see one of the displays wobble dangerously—Rosaya was setting her trap. Thankfully it stabilized instead of falling over, though it was certainly leaning precariously. They'd be in the clear soon. Just a little longer for Rosaya to get out from behind the set-up and move reasonable distance away.

"Maker's breath… fine. I'll replace the bloody brace, if that's what it takes to shut you up, but you're not getting a single copper back," he grumbled. He muttered what he surely thought were unheard gripes about jumped-up knife-ears and what he'd do regarding her ears if he had any say in the matter.

Unfortunately for him, Isefel heard every word.

"Hm, it wouldn't look good if you were caught short-changing the Grey Wardens, now would it?" she said. If he was going to be that much of an ass, she might as well try for as much as she could get. "Maybe you give me a better brace, return half the price of the damaged item, and throw in an extra set of throwing knives, my Commander doesn't have to hear about this."

The quartermaster sputtered. "Are you threatening me, elf?"

"That depends. Are you scared?" Isefel folded her arms, staring him down. From the corner of her eye she could see Rosaya slip away, bag visibly more filled than it had been before. They were in the clear.

She was toeing the line, now. He'd either comply or combust. She decided not to wait for him to make up his mind and pressed the brace into his arms. "Just get to it. I have important business to attend to."

For a moment he feared he was about to refuse her, but after a brief stare down he turned away, rummaging through a crate of goods to search for a replacement.

"You've got a fierce look about you, darlin. Here to fight?"

Isefel turned abruptly at the voice behind her, but with a bit of relief found the words weren't direct at her. A pair of soldiers stood just a short distance behind her, obviously waiting for her business with the quartermaster to conclude so they could get their own needs seen to.

She felt just a bit bad—much as she enjoyed harassing the quartermaster, she didn't want to hold other people up. It couldn't be helped, she supposed.

In any case, a dark-haired soldier with a bow was clumsily trying to strike up a conversation with a red-headed and rather severe looking female officer. By her strained expression, it was costing this woman a great deal of effort not to deck him.

"Yes," she said, nearly pained. "Officer Vallen of the second company. And you are…"

"At your service, my lady," he said with a suggestive wink, "So, any last wishes I can help fulfil before you head into battle? Life is fleeting, you know. That pretty face could be decorating some darkspawn spear this time tomorrow."

A long silence followed his words, punctuated only by the nearby quartermaster's occasional mutterings about bothersome elves. If a look could kill, the way Vallen was glaring at that man would have had him dead several times over.

Almost impressively he seemed unthreatened. "Shall I take that quiet glare as a no? Oh well, too bad."

"Here—take your damned gear and bugger off," the quartermaster snapped, inserting himself in the deteriorating conversation and all but shooing Isefel out of his stall. "Now, what can I do for you, good sir?" he said, turning to the human man with artificial cheer.

With Rosaya successfully a safe distance away and with nothing compelling her to stay, Isefel eagerly turned away.

It had been a long time since she'd just done something a little silly and impulsive like that. Most of the time she had to be the responsible one, but it felt good to just do something a little reckless for the hell of it. Besides, it was more for Rosaya's sake than her own, though getting the drinks out of the deal was certainly a nice personal perk.

The best kind of booze was booze you didn't have to pay for.

"Well, I'd say that went well," Isefel said as she caught up with Rosaya, counting the coins she'd gotten back from the quartermaster. "How did things go on your end?

"Pretty good. The trap's set up and I was able to get some interesting things," she said, showing off the new contents of her bag. "He had some high-quality potions and poultices, so I grabbed those. There are even a few that I'm pretty sure are lyrium. The assortment of food was a bit disappointing, but I did manage to find some dried fruits."

Isefel picked up one of the blue vials and turned it over in her hand. It emitted a soft blue glow and the glass seemed to tremble slightly. She put it back in the bag—it wasn't something she could use, but it'd probably be useful for Edmund in the coming battle. Three other bottles of less magical contents were also in the bag. Isefel picked on up and inspected the label.

"I don't really know what's in those… I just grabbed the most expensive looking bottles," Rosaya said.

"Hm… this one's Butterbile. I'd guess this is what he sells the most of. More of a punch to the face than a drink," she said, reaching for the other bottles. "Ooh, West Hills Brandy. Not bad. And this one… I've never heard of it. Abyssal Peach?"

Rosaya shrugged. "I figured it might be good. Peaches are sweet, right?" She opened it with probably less ceremony than a bottle like that deserved and promptly took a drink. The rim had barely touched her lips before she pulled back, gagging as she spat the liquid out onto the ground. "Creators, that's disgusting!"

Isefel patter her back somewhat awkwardly but couldn't help but laugh. "Do Dalish not drink or something?"

"We do. We have meads and the like," she said, slightly flushed. "But our clan never has much of it, and we have to make it all ourselves. So… apprentices are never allowed to have any."

She supposed that made sense. "That's alright. You don't have to drink it if you don't like it, you know."

Rosaya looked a bit grateful and passed the bottle back and instead went for the dried fruits. "Are you sure that bottle's actually meant for consumption? It tastes vaguely poisonous."

Isefel hummed in consideration before taking a sip from the Abyssal Peach. It was certainly strong. And probably best enjoyed in small quantities. "I guess it's something of an acquired taste," she said. "Anyways, I meant to ask—what are you doing up and around the camp? I thought Duncan wanted you to rest."

"And I could ask what you're doing robbing the quartermaster. I thought you were supposed to go find the other recruits with Cousland." Rosaya said, brow raised.

"Touché," said Isefel. She had kind of forgotten about that. Dealing with the quartermaster hadn't taken all that long, but already Cousland and the dwarves were well out of sight, off somewhere else in the camp. "I better get on that. And you… just don't push yourself too hard."

Rosaya sighed. "I know. I'll head back to Duncan in a bit, I promise." She turned, waving over her shoulder. Isefel noticed she took the dried fruits with her. Rude. "I'll see you later, okay?"

Isefel took another drink before closing the bottle and turning back to the camp. She ended up with more than she should reasonably drink on her own. Nothing wrong with holding onto it though—might make for a nice celebration after they finished whatever ritual they were about to go through.

She could hear the quartermaster's voice drift over on the breeze as he finished his deal with the human man.

"There you go, Warden. Happy to be of service."

"Right. Thanks, try not to get yelled at by any more elves!" He said cheerily, turning away as the quartermaster got red and the face and sputtered.

Warden. One of the men Duncan had wanted them to find? Honestly, what were the odds?

Isefel started after him, catching up to him halfway up the steps to one of the higher floors of the ruin. "Excuse me," she called out as she came up to his side. "Are you with the Wardens?"

He glanced back, cheeky smile at the ready. "For you, I could be."

"Huh. A charmer, I see," she said, looking the man over carefully. Even though he came on strong with the officer earlier he seemed more or less like the harmless sort. She'd better watch him, just in case. "I'm Isefel Tabris, a Warden Recruit."

"Really? Well, you're not what I thought you'd be."

There were many ways she could take that statement. "What did you think I'd be?"

"Not an elf," he said bluntly. "The other Wardens only mentioned a mage and two dwarves. Yet, here you are. Though it seems like my secret wish was fulfilled—I was praying for a comely lass with golden hair and poor eyesight."

Isefel raised a brow. "Poor eyesight, hm?"

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, only just realizing how that statement fit in regard to her specifically. "Yes, well, you know what those Chantry Sisters are always saying. 'The Maker answers prayers in unexpected ways,' right?"

"True. Though I could also quote back a few proverbs about 'an eye for an eye,' and all that."

"Ha… right. Anyways, the name's Daveth, I'm a recruit too. It's about bloody time you lot came along. I was beginning to think they cooked this ritual up just for my benefit."

Daveth. Good. Looks like despite her brief distraction she'd still be able to get her job done. "Could be. Do you know anything about the ritual?"

"I happened to be sneaking around the camp last night, see, and I head a couple of Grey Wardens talking. So I listen in for a bit." He lowered his voice the way one might do when discussing a conspiracy. "I'm thinking they plan to send us into the Wilds."

"Really? I suppose that makes sense. Grey Wardens fight darkspawn, and right now the trees are bound to be crawling with them."

Daveth shook his head. "Not just that. Cannibals, beasts, and witches too. What isn't to be scared of? It's all too secretive for me. Makes my nose twitch. I guess we'll have to wait and see. Like we have a choice."

Well, whatever the Joining ended up being, it was becoming increasingly clear that it'd be no picnic. "I'll watch your back if you watch mine."

"Heh. I'll watch your back, alright."

Ah. As she guessed, flirtation was just his default. "Just try not to get too distracted back there," Isefel said, unable to help but roll her eye.

"I'll try to keep my wits about me. Anyways, I expect it's time to get to Duncan."

"You're right. I did sort of abandon the other recruits, but I was supposed to be looking for you anyways. And here you are," Isefel, turning towards the Grey Warden's tent and waving him along with her.

"Here I am, indeed."

A cacophony of crashing sounded behind them, along with some of the more creative expletives Isefel had heard recently. The quartermaster tripped the trap.

Daveth turned back at the noise. "What was that?"

Isefel kept walking. "Satisfaction," she said with a small laugh. "Come on, let's not keep the others waiting."

Ser Jory was a name he knew, but not one he could attach a face to. A knight from Redcliffe who was granted permission to transfer to Highever, if Cousland remembered correctly. He always made a point to know the names of the men under his command, but somehow Ser Jory had managed to slip through the cracks. Perhaps because he'd been assigned under Fergus and not him.

He kept checking the heraldry of the soldiers he passed, but he had yet to find any bearing Highever's laurel wreath. King Cailan had been right, then—Fergus had taken the whole of their force into the wilds already.

A strange dread pooled in him at the thought of finally confronting his brother. He'd rehearsed in his head over and over what he would say, how he would explain to him that their home was lost… but nothing felt right.

Cousland reminded himself that the important thing was that Oren and Oriana were safe. They hadn't completely lost everything. Even it would never be the same again, he still had his family. In time they could rebuild. His new status as a Warden would probably prevent him from being a part of that rebuilding… but at least they would be okay.

Warden life wasn't something he thought he'd ever enjoy, but he was learning it didn't have to be all bad. The other recruits were decent folk—most of them, anyways—and maybe it was time for him to experience the world away from his family and his home for a change.

He let out a long sigh, looking down at Lady. "This whole 'positive outlook' thing is going to get exhausting really fast."

She blinked at him, offering a sympathetic whine.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Not much to be done about it, is there?"

Lady wagged her little stub-tail, barking loudly.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't pretend to hear that," he said, rolling his eyes.

Ash Warriors stood assembled near the exit gate, faces covered in kaddis with their mabari painted to match. The leader of them spoke briefly with a servant, who ran off hastily after receiving instructions. He met Cousland's eye from across the way, and upon seeing him walking alongside Lady, offered a cursory nod before leading his men out of the camp.

Kaddis. That was something he'd need to get ahold of. They'd managed alright without it thus far, but the risk of Lady getting confused by the sensory cacophony that was a battlefield was going to be greatly enhanced in the chaos of a large fight.

The quartermaster was unlikely to carry something as specialized as kaddis. His best bet was to try and find more Ash Warriors or soldiers from the hound units until he could either buy or make his own.

He was just about to double back to the kennel master when he spotted a female soldier seated near a ballista on one of the outer walls in the process of applying a strong-smelling paint to a mixed-breed mabari.

Since it wouldn't hurt to ask, Cousland headed over. "Mind if I borrow that for a moment?"

The brunette woman looked up at him. A pungent red kaddis was smeared in a lazy streak across her nose and alarmingly blue eyes locked with his briefly. Something about the intensity of the hue struck him as both familiar and unsettling, but he couldn't quite place why.

Her dog seemed to parallel her in a way, patchwork colored coat matching her seemingly thrown-together assortment of armor. She'd more splotched the red paint on her hound than painted him. At first glance it looked like the hound was bleeding. Not how he personally would have gone about it, but to each their own.

The woman shrugged after a moment. "Sure, I don't see why not," she said, holding the container out. "Take a seat. I'm Hawke."

"Well met. Cousland. And this is Lady," he offered, seating himself nearby on the bench. Lady sat attentively before him, fully accustomed to the painting process. He started on his own face, tracing the familiar pattern across his cheek—though he didn't doubt it would come out asymmetrical since he wasn't using a mirror and he left his only freshly-healed scar unpainted, just in case.

Recognition of a sorts passed over Hawkes face at the name. A question flitted across her face, but she apparently decided not to voice it. "Odd to find someone with a mabari who doesn't carry their own kaddis," she observed instead as he dipped two fingers into the red paint and began applying it to Lady's coat.

He shrugged. "I'll need to stop by the supply officer, I suppose. I was in a hurry when I left home, didn't grab any," It was probably best to leave it at that. When one's home is burning around them kaddis isn't really on the list of priorities. "And there hasn't been a convenient opportunity to get some until now. Honestly, I didn't even think about it much until I saw the Ash Warriors on the other side of the camp," he said, glancing between her and her dog. "Are the two of you with the Ash Warriors, or with the other hound squads?"

"Nah, nothing like that. Shart's in his sunset years, and he isn't pure mabari to boot. He's spent most of his life shepherding druffalo and occasionally chasing off bandits. He's still tough as they come, but not built for direct warfare like those other hounds." Hawke knelt down beside her old dog and pressed a kiss on his nose. "So the two of us are with the ballista teams on the edges of the ruin."

It took a moment for the full effect of her words to hit him, but when they did he had to exercise a great deal of self-control not to laugh. "Your dog's name… is Shart?"

Shart barked happily, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Lady seemed to eye the slobber disapprovingly, shifting slightly where she sat to scoot a bit further away from the hound. She'd always liked humans better than other dogs.

"It's as much a name as a general warning to the public," Hawke nodded. "Also, don't tell any of the Chantry Sisters, but his name is actually short for Shartan."

Cousland's eyebrows climbed straight into his hairline. "A bit sacrilegious, aren't we?"

"I find a bit of heresy amusing from time to time. Keeps the stick out of the ass, and all that."

He laughed, passing the kaddis container back to her. "How's someone like you end up in the army, anyways? Don't take this wrong, but you don't much seem like the soldier type."

"Oh? Then what type do I seem like?"

The type who'd spent more of her life fighting for herself than for others. The type that wouldn't be here if she probably had the choice. It was in her eyes—a deep and angry sort of fire that spoke of a general annoyance with life itself.

A fighter, but not a soldier.

Cousland also noticed that she had a very conspicuous flask poking out of her belt. His hunch about the quartermaster and the contraband goods had been correct. "Like the type who's more trouble than your average captain is willing to put up with." He settled to leave it at that, because if his intuition was right, that was also true.

"Careful with your compliments sir, or I may even be flattered," she said with a wink.

Not the reaction he was expecting. Not that he was complaining. "I can think of worse ways to spend an afternoon than flattering a beautiful woman. If you'd like, I could even do it on purpose."

She leaned in, dark hair draping over her shoulder and she twirled a lock around her finger. "Oh? And just what might you say, were you to do so intentionally?"

"Oh, I'm sure I could come up with something. My greatest challenge would be deciding where to start," Cousland drawled, unable to help himself. She leaned in continuously closer as he spoke. "I might start by complimenting your natural charm and wit, then perhaps suggest we find someplace more scenic to get to know one another…"

"Hmm. Do go on."

Without breaking eye contact Cousland reached down and grabbed her arm, which had been slowly inching towards his pockets. "… and then, I would ask that you please wait until we've at least had dinner before you start reaching into my pants," he said, only just managing to maintain a straight face.

She pulled back, though not as abruptly as he would have expected for someone caught in the middle of attempting to pick his pocket, and grinned. "Sharp boy," she said, standing with a laugh.

"Sly girl," he countered, brow raised.

She stretched her arms briefly and swung them at her side, taking a few steps away. "Keep your wits about you, eh? Maybe we could actually see about that dinner after the battle. You know, if a genlock doesn't eat your pretty face off."

Cousland laughed despite himself. This woman had some serious balls. He had to respect that. "Count on it. Careful out there, Hawke. Don't die."

"You either," she said, waving as she snapped for her dog and promptly disappeared into the bustle of the camp.

Cousland looked down to find Lady staring at him with extreme judgement. "Oh, don't give me that. I saw through her game the minute she got started," He said, rolling his eyes.

His hound huffed doubtfully, glancing at Hawke's retreating figure. It was a very nice retreating figure, he had to admit.

Lady nipped at his hand.

"Ow! Hey, that's very rude of you," he said, rubbing his hand. "Fine, I'll get back to work. It's your fault I was talking to her anyways. You're welcome for the kaddis, by the way. I know you enjoy getting painted. Sorry it's not your preferred color, but it will have to do."

Lady continued to grump but followed him loyally as ever as he continued through the ruin. A Chantry Sister stood before a fairly small congregation, at least by the standards of the other sermons he'd seen held around the camp.

"Children of the Maker, hear me…"

She spoke of darkness and death, and a comfort in the Maker's side and the purpose of the call. The words somehow rang hollow in his ears. After what happened to his home he couldn't help but doubt what kind of purpose—if any—the Maker could possibly be working in this world.

Mostly it just felt like everything was falling apart.

Needless to say, his relatively good cheer from just moments ago vanished. Talk of doom and gloom did tend to sour one's mood, after all.

He spotted a certain man knelt at the edge of the assembled listeners dressed in the armor of a Redcliffe knight but bearing the shield of a Highever soldier. Perhaps the man he was after.

"Ser Jory? Is that you?" He called to get his attention.

The man turned as he stood, moving away from the gathered congregation. "Greetings. You must be one of the new Warden Recruits we've heard about," he said.

"Yes," he said, extending an hand in greeting. "Cousland. Pleased to finally meet you."

Rather than take his hand, Jory's eyes widened before he dipped into a bow. "Cousland? As in Peter Cousland? Forgive me my Lord, I should have recognized you right away. I'm honored to be in your presence."

He motioned for the knight to stand. "Just… just Cousland, is fine. Now that I'm with the Wardens, 'Lord' rings a bit hollow."

"As you say," Jory said, straightening himself and instead offering a respectful nod. "I hope we're both lucky enough to fully join the Wardens. Is it not thrilling to be given that chance?"

Sounded like the knight was suffering from a case of hero worship. He wondered how deserving the Wardens were of the admiration. "I wouldn't be here if I had the choice. But… well, it ended up not being my choice."

Jory frowned at the remark but did not press. "I fought hard to get here. Impressing Duncan was not easy. Tell me, has anyone told you what this Joining ritual entails?"

"Only that it's dangerous, and it's all apparently a big secret." The more—or rather the less—that he heard about it, the less he liked it.

"I never heard of such a ritual. I had no idea there were more tests after getting recruited."

Cousland watched how Jory shifted his weight continuously as he stood in place. The knight was nervous and unsure despite his best attempts to remain calm.

"If I've picked up on anything, it's that nothing is as straightforward about the Wardens as they might like us to believe," he said, shaking his head. "Come on. Let's get back to Duncan and have this done with."

The ruin of Ostagar was its own sort of wilderness, and if she wasn't careful she feared she may very well get lost in it. Amidst the crowds and the yelling and marching of men in clanging armor, she felt small and very out of place.

Above the general noise there was an ambient hum, low but constant, carrying the same threat of dread as a lingering hornet's nest. Perhaps it was nothing, but there was a more frightening and realistic chance that she was actually hearing something. It had pressed against the base of her skull since their arrival in the ruin. Duncan's gifted dagger had helped to alleviate it some, but she couldn't fully shake it from her mind.

She'd noticed it before. She would hear a low hum or a slight melody as they traveled, an indicator along with her other symptoms that her sickness was flaring up. Usually the mage's magic had served to calm it again. Since last night, however, it nearly had no effect. It was almost like the sickness was adjusting to the spell, learning, growing beyond its ability to slow.

Rosaya knew Duncan was right—she should be resting. But resting brought quiet, and in the quiet there was nothing to distract her from the low but insistent hum and the subtle tingle beneath her skin.

Robbing the quartermaster had been a fun diversion. Rosaya hadn't expected Isefel to be the sort to get up to those sorts of antics, but then again, there was a lot about the older elf she didn't really know. She wouldn't have even gone along with it herself if the quartermaster hadn't been so overwhelmingly rude.

As it was, watching on as the armor stands fell over one after the other when he tripped the trap was nothing less that purely satisfying.

Her good cheer wasn't to last, however, which was just typical for her these days.

The gate leading to the woods burst open and a flood of soldiers poured into the camp. At first she just thought it was a scouting party, but her blood turned to ice as she took in the mangled and wounded men carried between pairs on stretchers.

Some wailed as their injuries tormented them. Some of them appeared to have already died in the transit.

The immediate area descended into urgency.

"Bring bandages!"

"Get water boiling and begin heating the scalpels."

"He's not going to make it. End it for him now, it will be kinder."

"Should we get the mages? Someone get the mages!"

"Damned robes are too busy with 'important preparations,'" a nurse said, tying a clean apron around herself. Rosaya had the fortune—or perhaps misfortune—to be standing by, and the nurse unceremoniously shoved a box of bandages into her arms. "We're on our own. Come on, we need to save as many of these men as we can."

She could have turned away. She could have set down the box and left. This wasn't her task, and these shems had no right to be ordering her about.

But Rosaya saw a man weep as a nurse attempted to set his broken leg and another scream as they pulled arrows from his flesh. These men, though not her people, were people, and they were in pain.

Her heart ached, and Rosaya followed.

"Arrow came out clean, but he's not out of the woods yet," an assisting soldier said as she and the nurse approached. "Wound's swelling and got puss like no tomorrow. Skin's turning grey."

"Damn. If it was his arm we could amputate, but torso's just a death sentence at this point," the nurse said, taking a clean cloth and whipping at the wound.

"The wound's poisoned," Rosaya added, leaning over to inspect the soldier. Did darkspawn use poisons? Probably something important to take note of.

The nurse looked over at her, almost just now registering her presence. This human's tunnel vision was not from a disregard for her, but rather for a concern for her charges. At least in this case it was nothing personal. "Yes… you…?"

"I'm with the Wardens," Rosaya said briefly. Without waiting for any further permissions from the humans she bent near the wound and sniffed it—sour and acidic, just as she expected. "I think it's a poison based on rashvine. Send someone to bring spindleweed and prophet's laurel. Boil them in water and pour it over the wound. He'll still experience some painful side-effects, but he'll live."

They stared down at her. Rosaya briefly wondered if somehow by helping she'd offended some human custom, or if they'd even take advice from some random elf.

"Right, you heard her," said the nurse, turning to her other assistants. "Other arrow wounds are bound to have the same problem so be sure to prepare plenty of the mix." The others snapped to action moments later, shouting for servants to run and prepare the herbs.

"Have you not had problems with poisons in the past?" Rosaya asked, holding a patient still as the nurse worked to bandage him.

She simply shook her head. "Nothing we didn't know how to identify or treat, until now. Usually we've been able to take care of it unless it's a case of blight sickness or contact with darkspawn blood. But these damn monsters keep coming up with new ways to make my job harder."

"They're probably using the resources of the land to develop upgrade themselves. Rashvine grows in the Wilds naturally, so it was probably only a matter of time before they got it in their heads to use it," she reasoned.

"You from these parts, Warden?" the nurse asked as they moved on to the next cot.

Rosaya shook her head. "I'm not a Warden." Not yet. "I'm just with them. And I've passed through the area enough times to be wary of it's unique dangers."

"Hmf. Not a lot of folk around here are familiar with the area. Our men have had just as many foul run-ins with the wildlife as they have with the darkspawn," she huffed. She didn't seem to have the caring disposition Rosaya would have expected of a nurse—but then again, in an army environment there probably wasn't much room for softness.

The human healers couldn't really compare to her clan's own medical practices. Not because they were inferior, but because of how vastly different their operations were in terms of scale and severity.

"Why aren't the mages helping?" Rosaya asked.

The nurse pursed her lips, a bitterness crossing over her. "Have to save their magic for important things, apparently. Simple soldiers like these aren't worth their precious energy. And they're in the middle of preparations for some ritual or other, I don't know. I'm not important enough to keep informed on what the powerful folk are up to; I just try and stitch up the men they get wounded."

After a few moments a soldier in splint mail approached the head nurse with purpose. "You asked for me? Is it the same as last time?"

"Yes. Thank you for agreeing to do this for us," the nurse said, nearly exhausted with relief.

The man smiled kindly, glancing about at the wounded around them with concern. "Of course. It's the least I can do… even if it is unpleasant. I'll get started and give you a count in just a few moments."

Rosaya turned away, deciding to leave them to it. The most severe cases were being treated now, and there was really no reason for her to linger. She moved to leave through the other side of the infirmary, but something stopped her, something she couldn't quite place.

She turned on the spot, trying to puzzle out what it was she felt, when a man in a cot reached out and grasped her arm, grip iron on her arm and face whitened.

"You… you need to convince them." The hoarseness of his voice made her own throat feel dry. "We've got to run. The darkspawn are coming."

Rosaya flinched back and pried his fingers off her arm as a nurse rushed over. Her skin buzzed with a familiar itch where he touched. As she pulled away it finally struck her—the hum she'd heard, the pressure she felt—this was the most concentrated it was in the entire ruin. The cots around her were sequestered away from the others around them, distanced and purposely set apart.

These men had the Blight sickness. They had the same thing she did.

"I saw them," the infected man whispered, "We're gonna die."

"I apologize," said the nurse, "He's been like this ever since we found him in the Wilds yesterday."

Rosaya glanced past the edges of the ruins around them. The trees, which all her life had been a marker of home, cover, and safety, now loomed ominously like a dark army of their own. There were reasons her clan never came to the Korcari Wilds unless they had any other choice. The few times they'd passed through they kept out of the deeper parts of the wood and left as soon as they could.

If this was how quickly the sickness could take hold without aid… Rosaya forced the thought away. She only suspected, and the strangeness she felt might just be coincidental. "Did the darkspawn do this to him?"

The nurse hung her head. "Yes. Those who come in contact with the darkspawn face a great risk. Many of them end up here. It is all we can do to see to it that they are… comfortable."

"You… you can feel it, can't you?" the wounded man stared clean through her—not like the other humans who just didn't register her, but like he was peering through her like a window to something else. Her skin crawled. "They take the land, turn it black and sick… and then you can feel it inside. They'll come out of that forest and spread. Like caterpillars covering a tree. They'll swallow us whole."

"That's quite enough out of you. You need to calm yourself, my good man."

"They were everywhere. I saw them."

Rosaya turned away with a painful realization. This man's maddened decline was the fate she'd left to Tamlen. It was what waited for her unless Duncan's ritual worked. Her head began to spin as a static overtook her senses, pouring over from the cots of nearby wounded soldiers and from her own being.

She gripped the knife Duncan had given her and a small piece of clarity washed over her, just enough for her to take a breath and force the sound and the static away.

She would not fall. She refused.

A voice rose strangely above the diluted noise of her own brain. The soldier in splint mail was again speaking to the head nurse. "I checked. It could be worse, only four new cases this time," he paused, a frown covering his face as his eyes drifted in her direction. "Five. Five new cases."

"Thank you. I'll have them moved right away."

There was a sound about him, as well. Subtle, a harmony of something.

The hum from the soldiers echoed off of him like voices off of a canyon wall and once again the volume increased. Afraid it would overwhelm her, Rosaya broke eye contact with the man and turned, all but fleeing the infirmary with only the vague destination of "away."

Duncan was right. She shouldn't have wandered.

The ruin was a blur as she moved through it. She needed to find some way to stop listening to the noise in her brain. Something louder. Her feet ended up carrying her to the loudest possible part of the camp—the kennels.

When she finally stopped she rested her weight against the wood of the pens, letting the howls, growls, and barks of the war hounds become the most prominent sound about her. Yet even here she could not escape the hum.

It was coming from nearby. It wasn't so overwhelming as it was in the infirmary, but something smaller and more subdued. One of the hounds.

Rosaya turned to leave but paused when she caught sight of the sickened dog through the bars. A brown mabari lay in a pile of dirty hay, awake but apparently too weak to stand. It watched her as she passed the bars of his kennel, as aware of her as she was of it.

The kennel master must have seen her staring, because only a moment later he approached at her side. "I'd hate to waste such a promising member of the breed, but the poor fella's not getting any better."

"It's sick, isn't it?" Rosaya asked softly, not taking her eyes of the dog.

"Unfortunately so. This is a mabari. Smart breed, and strong. His owner died in the last battle and the poor hound swallowed darkspawn blood," he said. So, the dog was in the same boat as her. "I have medicine that might help, but I need him muzzled first. That's the stickler."

"How come?"

"Well, if I try and he bites me I risk getting infected myself. Much as I'd like to save this hound, I can't risk it. Can't very well ask anyone to, either. I'd hate to have to put him down, but he's been so aggressive I don't think I'll end up with much choice."

Rosaya held out her hand. "Give me the muzzle."

"What?" He blinked in surprise. "I just said I can't have anyone risk it."

"It's not a risk for me." She was already infected. And if maybe she could spare the dog the same fate possible for her and those wounded soldiers, she had to try. "Besides, I'm good with animals."

He visibly hesitated, looking between her and the hound uncertainly. "Alright. If you think there's a chance. Let him smell you. We'll know right away if he'll respond. If he shows any signs of aggression, back right off, you hear?"

"Of course," Rosaya said, accepting the muzzle and turning back to the pen.

"Let's hope this works," he said, unbolting it. "I'd really hate to have to put him down."

The door closed behind her and Rosaya crouched to be at eye level with the hound. He stared her down, a low growl gathering in his throat as he hauled himself to his feet. The dog was sick and in pain. If it had lost it's master as well, this was a hurt that went deeper than just a physical ailment.

"Easy, _soun dhar_. It's okay," she said softly, extending a hand. "I want to help you feel better."

She'd already seen mabari intelligence for herself in Lady. It was present in this hound as well, shining in his eyes as he looked from her extended hand to the muzzle in her other and finally back to meet her eyes. Looking at him up close showed that he was just a bit shorter than Lady but carried more muscle on his bones with a sturdier build.

"I know you're hurting. You're probably scared and confused… but it's okay. You're safe." She crept forward a step more. The dog sniffed at her hand and lowered his stance to something less aggressive. Soon she was near enough that she could kiss it, if she desired. Or it could maul her face off. "Can I put this on you?" She asked, holding the muzzle up. "I know it's not very pleasant, but it's the only way I can help make it better."

The dog huffed. It's entire body quaked before collapsing to the ground, head flopping directly into her lap.

Well. She'd take that as a yes.

Rosaya fastened the muzzle around his head, yet the hound showed no sign he intended to get off of her. She suspected he was hurting as much from a lack of safe companionship as he was the sickness since the taint claimed his companion.

That made two of them.

"Ha! Well done," the kennel master said triumphantly. "Now I can see about treating the dog properly, poor fella. Say, are you headed into the Wilds anytime soon?"

Rosaya shrugged, tentatively scratching behind the dog's ears. His little tail started to wag just the tiniest bit. "Yes, well, if he ever gets off of me, I might."

"Might be never, if he has his way," he chuckled. "There's a particular herb I could use to improve his chances. It's a flower that grows in the swamps here, if I remember. If you happen across it I could use it."

"I'll see what I can do. What does it look like?"

"It's very distinctive. All white, with a blood-red center. Typically grows out of fallen trees and other decaying organism," he said.

All white, blood-red center? "I know of the flower. It's quite rare. My people call it _era'felgara_. You say it helps against the taint?"

The kennel master shrugged. "To an extent. It'll only improve his chances, but there's no guarantee he'll recover. Still, I like to hope." "He seems quite fond of you. Why don't you come back after the battle? If he shows signs of recovery, we could see about imprinting him on you."

It might be nice to have a dog. Lady and Cousland were two peas in a pod, and mabari were certainly remarkable hounds. Maybe it would work out. She just hoped he would be able to pull through—that she would too. Rosaya wanted to trust Duncan's Joining ritual… but she realized the grim reality that she may still die.

She just didn't want to meet it without a fight.

Something echoed around her—she couldn't tell if there was really something nearby or if it was a lingering from earlier.

"There you are."

Rosaya startled at the voice, looking up abruptly to find the man from the infirmary leaning on the posts of the pen. He offered a crooked sort of grin when he saw her sitting on the hay with the mabari's head in her lap.

Without the spiral of noise in her own brain she could actually get a better look at him. It was clear by his build that he was a warrior, broad-shouldered and fitted with a hefty shield and blade. Yet for his obvious strength there was a genuine kindness and light in his eyes.

"… were you looking for me?" she asked after a moment.

He shrugged, but the collection of sweat on his brow implied that he had, most likely, chased after her. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You seemed… startled earlier, in the infirmary. But it seems you found some good company, didn't you? Who's your friend?"

The mabari lifted his head, a low growl gathering in his throat. Rosaya suspected he'd have howled were it not for the muzzle. She placed a hand on his head, shushing him gently.

"I don't know. We only just now had the fortune to meet."

"Funny how fortune works, isn't it? Nothing's better than making a new friend, if you ask me. Well, biting into a fresh block of Orlesian cheese is pretty good, but still just a close second," he said with a decisive nod. Something about his nature took her off guard and she couldn't help but crack a smile—perhaps her first one in recent days. "What were you doing in the infirmary?"

Rosaya stroked the dog in her lap absently. "Helping, where I could. I accidentally got swept up in the arrival of the new patients. I didn't plan on sticking around there as long as I did, but… well, they needed help."

Something soft crossed over his face. "That's quite brave. Anyone who works with men injured by darkspawn takes a lot of risks."

"I wasn't trying to be brave. I just… I just couldn't bring myself to walk away." She shrugged, not sure what else there was to say. "What about you? You're clearly not injured. What were you doing in the infirmary?"

"Bit of a long story, really." He shifted uncomfortably, leaning his weight against the pen. "The head nurse has me stop by when they get a new batch of injured men to run some checks. If you're interested, I can tell you more about it, but first there's someone I'd like you to talk to."

The man offered a hand to help her to her feet.

Rosaya eyed it with open mistrust. "Who?"

"A friend of mine. Look, he can explain it a lot better than I can, but I can promise it's important," he said, an urging sincerity in his eyes.

Against her every instinct, Rosaya reached to take his hand.

Something echoed inside her soul. A song.

"You!" It was less of a call and more of a screech, and both she and the young man nearly leapt out of their skins. He bolted upright and she fell unceremoniously back into the hay. The dog started growling again.

His face visibly paled as he turned to the oncoming woman. From her position in the pen Rosaya could only make out was grey hair and Chantry garb. Understandably frightening.

"Revered Mother," he said uneasily, "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, and what a fine 'hello' that is. I see your manners haven't improved in the passing months at all," she scoffed.

His whole posture was rigid as if he was bracing for catastrophe. He began to offer an apology, but she didn't let him get a word in, waving her hand in front of his face dismissively.

"Well, the least you can do to make it up to me is deliver a message to the mages. Upmost importance, and I expect it to be done immediately," she said. Rosaya wondered briefly if it were possible for her to be part snake, because every word was hissed.

The man sighed defeatedly. "Of course, Revered Mother. What message am I delivering?"

"Inform Senior Enchanter Thatcher there has been a change to the mage's placement for tonight's battle. They will be moved from the bridge to the eastern and western porticos. Furthermore, an additional platoon of templars has arrived, and these templars will be given authority to authorize the use of spells in combat." There was a nearly audible sneer in her voice. At a guess, Rosaya figured there was more to this than a simple message delivery. "In fact, inform the mage I wish to meet with him directly. There are other matters of great import we must discuss."

"… right. Of course. Anything else while I'm out? Shall I pick up some eggs as well? Never mind, I'll be able to do that myself when the mages inevitably turn me into a chicken."

Rosaya snickered quietly, but the old woman was less than amused. "Wait, wouldn't you turn into a rooster?" she offered from within the pen while the Revered Mother flustered with building rage.

"Nope, a chicken." He shook his head. "Mages are crafty like that. Full grown man one minute, then poof! Egg laying hen the next. Magic!"

"You know, I don't think it works that way. In my experience it's been less of a 'poof!' and more of a 'zap!'"

He nodded solemnly. "Ah, I see. More theatrical that way, and Maker knows these mages can't do anything without a hint of drama."

"If you're _quite _finished," the Revered Mother breathed, casting a withering look her way before zeroing in on the man, "I will be reporting this behavior to your superior. If this is how you behave in your station, then perhaps he made a mistake when selecting you."

He instantly stiffened, all playfulness gone in an instant. "He didn't," he said, voice steel. Whatever the Revered Mother was getting at, she'd apparently touched a nerve.

She smirked with something like triumph. "Well, if that's the case, then a simple delivery like this should be no trouble for you."

"Fine. In a minute," he said attempting to wave her off.

"No, you will go now," she said with authority, advancing on him.

He stepped back in the face of her sudden aggression. "But I was in the middle of something—"

"Now!" she barked, chasing him near halfway across the yard.

Rosaya popped her head over the pen, watching him go. She wondered what he wanted to tell her. Wondered what his name was. Wondered why she cared.

The Revered Mother glanced back. Rosaya offered a tentative wave as their eyes met, but the older woman turned away with a scoff. "… filthy elves rooting around in the mud with the dogs…"

Rosaya sighed, stepping out of the pen and closing the gate behind her. "Just when I was starting to really believe humans might not be so bad, too…"

The mabari boofed softly, looking at her through the bars with large eyes.

"I know. I have to go now, but I'll be back. I promise."

She pressed her finger to her temples, trying to alleviate the pressure, but it was all for not. In that moment Rosaya could no longer deny that she was running out of time.

It started as a hum, a distant rhythm, and only in the worst moments did she hear hints of music.

Now… now there was singing.

The guard turned into the tent to retrieve the teyrn. Aothor had stopped to speak with the soldier outside Loghain's tent more out of an idle curiosity than anything else, but he found the prospect of actually receiving an audience with the fabled Hero of River Dane a chance he didn't want to pass up.

If anyone was going to have an accurate feel for how the coming battle would go, it would be Loghain.

"Yes, what is it?" The teyrn muttered, pushing aside the tent flap and emerging into the dim sunlight. He cast his vision down finally, realizing he was standing there. "Ah. You are one of Duncan's new Grey Wardens, I assume."

The old human was much as Aothor remembered, save for a few stands of grey hair in his dark mane. When Cailan and Maric had visited Orzammar, Loghain had accompanied them as well. Aothor had been little more than a child at the time, but what little he saw of the men as they visited with his father left him amazed.

It'd been his first time seeing humans. And now, he was surrounded by them. In any event, the teyrn didn't seem to recognize him anymore than the king had.

"Indeed I am," he said, inclining his head respectfully.

"Cailan's fascination with the Wardens goes beyond the ordinary. Are you aware that his father brought your order back to Ferelden?" There was something about his voice—disapproval mixed with doubt.

"I have heard that," he nodded. "The first time Wardens had been welcomed on Ferelden soil since the early Storm Age."

"Maric respected the Grey Wardens; they have an honored place in the hearts of our people. But Maric would have understood that it takes more than legends to win a battle. That's not an argument I'll repeat here." Now there was a layer of bitterness added in. He knew from the guard that the teyrn and king argued frequently about a variety of matters. It was obviously wearing at him. "You seem like a man who knows his history. You're no surface dwarf, either; I can see it in your eyes. Smart of the Grey Wardens to look for new recruits in Orzammar."

"If my previous experience against the darkspawn can be of use here against the Blight, then all the better," Aothor said, rolling a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I imagine you humans will need all the help you can get."

Loghain chuckled dryly. "True enough, I suppose. I don't suppose you'll be riding into the thick of battle with the rest of your fellows, will you?"

He'd found it odd that Duncan hadn't given them any indication as to the role they would play in the battle. Perhaps the Commander was waiting to see how things progressed and would make up his mind as the day wore on.

"I don't know," Aothor said finally, the admission not sitting well with him. He didn't like being out of the loop about plans.

Loghain huffed something between a scoff and a laugh, folding his arms over his chest. "If Cailan has his way, you will. Now, I must return to my tasks. Pray that the king remains amenable to wisdom, if you're the praying sort."

The sinking feeling in his gut only grew. "And if he's not?"

"Then simply pray." And with that, the teyrn turned away.

The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach only grew. Cousland maintained that Cailan wasn't as overconfident and single-minded as their encounter with the monarch had lead him to believe, but Aothor couldn't exactly be comforted when the king's chief adviser—who also happened to be a renowned military tactician—regarded the young ruler as a fool.

He didn't doubt that Cailan was a capable ruler, just how equipped he was to deal with this growing threat.

It was at about that moment that Aothor realized he'd not seen Liri for some time, despite her assurance she would catch up to him. He was struck by the belated but likely obvious realization that letting her run around the fortress unsupervised was a bad idea. She was a grown woman who didn't need to be watched, per say, but she was also prone to causing problems for her own entertainment.

The last thing the Wardens needed was to make themselves odious to the rest of the camp. Reputations, and all that.

The problem was that if she'd decided to slip off somewhere else he'd have little luck finding her. His best bet was for her to have the sense to find him, Stone willing.

He tried to cut through the mages section of the camp, but he was stopped by two heavily armored humans. Templars, if he had to guess. Aothor made a mental note to give Edmund a heads-up so he didn't accidentally wander this way.

"The mages must not be interrupted," the man said, voice echoing within the dome of his helm. "Their spirits are in the Fade."

Aothor looked up at the templar, completely at a loss. You could probably fit most of what he knew about magic into a thimble. "Which is…?"

"The Fade is the realm of dreams and the land of the dead. Or so the mages tell us," he said. Aothor didn't particularly like the sound of the land of the dead business. "Regardless, they are not to be disturbed. Not even by Grey Wardens."

"I apologize for the disruption, then. I'll go elsewhere." He said, turning away. Looks like he'd take the long way around.

A, older woman in red robes purposefully caught his eye as he made his way around the mages tents. The staff in her hand identified her as a mage, as did the general style of her garb, though unlike the other mages the templars spoke of she didn't seem to be in the Fade. Whatever that really meant.

"Greetings, young man. You are one of Duncan's newest recruits, are you not? He's not a man easily impressed. You should be proud," she said. "Allow me to introduce myself—I am Wynne, one of the mages summoned by the king."

"Stone met. I am Aothor," he said with a nod. "I've noticed quite a few mages around the ruin. One of the other Grey Warden Recruits is a mage: Amell. Would he be an acquaintance of yours?"

"I'd heard there was one from the Circle. Though we haven't met, I've heard much about Edmund Amell. Remarkable talent, but a remarkably poor attitude to match. Clever, but troublesome," the mage said, shaking her head. Aothor frowned a bit—that exactly wasn't how he'd describe Edmund. "Irving always believed he felt stifled by the Circle. Perhaps he will come more into his own as a Grey Warden. In any event, to defeat the darkspawn, we must all work together. It's not an idea everyone seems able to grasp."

"Have you mages fought against many of the darkspawn?"

"Stragglers, yes—not the vast horde the scouts speak of," Wynne said, looking down on him with a considering eye. "I wonder… how much do you know of the connection between the darkspawn and the Fade?"

Aothor couldn't help but raise a brow at the notion. So the surfacers had their own ideas about where darkspawn came from? "If there is one, I know nothing of it. I'm a dwarf after all."

"The Fade is home to many spirits, some benevolent, others far less so. At the heart of the Fade lies the Black City," she said, intonation one of a practiced teacher.

This dream realm not only had demons and spirits, but also a city? If it was the surfacers land of the dead, those dead people needed a place to live, he supposed. It didn't make much sense to him. "So… you're saying the darkspawn are just dream spirits?"

"Sadly, no. They are kin to neither the gentle Fade spirits not the malevolent demons. Shamefully, they were once the souls of men. Some say the Black City was once the seat of the Maker. But when the mages from the Tevinter Imperium found a way into the City, it was tainted with their sin."

Huh. Maybe he should have paid better attention when his tutors had lectured him about the specific beliefs of human religion, because all of this sounded more than a little far-fetched to him.

The mage continued on with her lecture. "The taint transformed those men, turning them into twisted reflections of their own hearts. And the Maker cast them back down to earth, where they became the first darkspawn. At least, that's what the Chant of Light says."

It all sounded more like a bedtime story than a fact, to him. "And do you believe this account?"

"It may be allegory, meant to teach us that our own evil causes human suffering." Wynne shrugged, folding her arms casually. "Or it may be true. It is as good an explanation as any, for now."

"Interesting to ponder, if nothing else." He said. Even if it wasn't helpful for figuring anything out about the darkspawn, it certainly added perspective to how the humans views his peoples most ancient enemy.

Wynne nodded sagely. "Yes. Occasionally it is wise to contemplate one's actions. Well, I'm certain Duncan has more for you to do than talk to me."

"Farewell, and good luck in the coming battle," he said, resuming his search of the camp.

He headed past the cluster of mages tents and up to the next tier of the ruin. This section of the camp was less densely populated than the other ones, with only a few servants dealing with storage and generally trying to keep the space semi-presentable.

Aothor found who he believed to be looking for—a man in simple splint mail stood locked in an argument with a less-than-pleased looking mage. Aothor stood off the side, waiting for them to finish.

The robed man huffed dismissively. "What her Reverence 'desires' is of no concern to me! I am busy helping the Grey Wardens—by the king's orders, I might add!"

"Should I have asked her to write a note?" he prodded, just this side of mocking.

"Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!" the mage said, all but stomping his feet in protest.

Alistair rolled his eyes dramatically, now fully mocking. "Yes, I was harassing you by delivering a message."

The mage scowled. "Your glibness does you no credit."

"Here I thought we were getting along so well. I was even going to name one of my children after you—the grumpy one."

"Enough! I will speak to the woman if I must!" The mage threw his hands in the air in defeat and turned dramatically, nearly knocking right into Aothor, who backed away a step. The mage glared down at him. "Out of my way, fool."

Aothor watched him storm away. He was _really_ pissed—he hoped that didn't come back to be a problem later.

"You know…" the remaining human drawled idly, also staring after the mage, "One good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together."

Indeed. Between Duncan, the other recruits, himself, and now this guy, it was an apparently strange assortment that had no business gathering together. Yet, here they were, semi-united under a common cause. "I think I know exactly what you mean."

"It's like a party! We could all stand in a circle and hold hands. _That_ would give the darkspawn something to think about," he said. "Hold on, we haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you'd be another mage."

Aothor looked up at the man, completely unable to tell if he was seriously asking or just joking. "How could a dwarf be a mage?" If he had a problem with mages, that was going to make things even more unnecessarily difficult for their group.

"You never know. These mages sneak up on you." He shrugged. "Wait, I do know who you are. You're one of Duncan's newest recruits, from Orzammar. I should have recognized you right away. I apologize."

"No harm done," he said, offering his hand in greeting. "You must be Alistair."

"Did Duncan mention me? Nothing bad, I hope." He said, clasping his arm. "As the junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you when you and the others prepare for the Joining."

"Very well. I'm Aothor. Pleased to meet you."

"Right, that was the name!" Alistair exclaimed, "The other Wardens brought back word of the other recruits when they arrived a few days ago, I'm ashamed that I already forgot. You're not the only dwarf, right? Sam mentioned two, I believe. You know, there haven't been any dwarven Grey Wardens in some time. You must know a lot about darkspawn."

Aothor shrugged, resting his hand idly on the hilt of his blade. "I've faced my fair share. My people have been fighting against them for centuries."

"Hard to believe most folks here think the darkspawn disappeared after the last Blight when your people still suffer every day," Alistair said, shaking his head sadly. Aothor was a bit taken aback by the sympathy—not many humans cared for the plight of the dwarves. "When I faced my first one, I wasn't prepared for how monstrous they were… and I'm certainly not looking forward to encountering more. Anyhow, we should head back to Duncan. I imagine he's eager to get things started."

"Right. With luck the other recruits will be waiting for us with Ser Jory and Daveth," Aothor nodded, starting to lead the way back towards the command tents. "The argument with that mage… what was that about?"

"The Circle is here at the Kings request and the Chantry doesn't like that one bit. They just love letting mages know how unwelcome they are. Which puts me in a bit of an awkward position… I was once a templar."

"I can see how that would be awkward." And a bit problematic. Aothor made a note to give Edmund a heads up about this—best he didn't get caught off guard by a former mage-hunter in their company. They didn't need to add any more unnecessary tension to their group.

Alistair only shrugged like he was physically trying to shake away the irritation. "I'm sure the Revered Mother meant it as an insult, sending me as her messenger. And the mage picked right up on that. I'd have never agreed to deliver it, but Duncan says we're all to cooperate and get along. Apparently, they didn't get the same speech."

"Well, fair warning—one of the other recruits is a mage. Will that be a problem?" He said, watching the Warden carefully.

"Right, I'd heard about that. Oliver gave some brief descriptions of the three recruits when he and the others got back a few days ago—it was you, the mage, and another dwarf, right?" There were more than just the three of them now, but Aothor supposed they would get to that soon enough. "Honestly, it'll depend on him. How likely is it he'll turn me into a chicken?"

"The odds are low but never zero," he mused. "But if he has a problem with you it's more likely to be fire than a transformation." Aothor shrugged as they passed back around the mage's encampment. "I feel he'll be willing to play nice if you are. Just keep in mind that he apparently had a very unfortunate run-in with a templar not that long ago—it might take some time to get comfortable."

"Uh-huh. I think I'll carry a bucket of water around with me, just in case."

Liri and Rosaya waited with Duncan at the main fire.

"What are you doing here?" Rosaya asked, head tilted in confusion. It took a moment for Aothor to realize the query was aimed that the human walking with him.

Alistair frowned, also somehow puzzled. "I'm a Warden. What are you doing here?"

Realization dawned over her face. "Guess that would explain why I was hearing…" she said softly mostly to herself. "Anyways, I'm a Warden Recruit."

Alistair chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "Oooh… Maker, and there I was trying to get you to come to Duncan with me. How odd would that have been?"

"More than a little. Just imagining it makes us look a little foolish, doesn't it?" Rosaya chuckled. Aothor didn't think he'd heard her do that before. "If you're the Warden that Aothor went to get, that'd make you Alistair, right?"

"Guilty as charged," he said, dipping his head. "And I find I'm a bit at a disadvantage here, my lady. I don't know your name."

"Rosaya Mahariel of Clan Sabrae."

"Huh. You know, there have never been very many women in the Grey Wardens. I wonder why that is…?"

Rosaya twitched a shoulder. "Probably because we're too smart for you."

"Oh really? Then what does that make you?" Alistair grinned.

Rosaya raised a brow, a smile threatening again the corners of her mouth. "Terribly unlucky."

Alistair winced and feigned injury by clutching his heart. "Ouch."

Liri caught Aothor's eye before rolling her own and clearing her throat loudly. He shrugged, grinning a bit.

"_At least they're getting along," _he signed across the way.

"_Sure, but I may very well vomit,"_ Liri said

Rosaya folded her arms in front of her, good cheer replaced with mild annoyance. "You know, it's not very polite to talk about people right in front of them. And don't lie, I know that's what you were doing."

"What?" Alistair blinked, once again confused.

"This is Liri Brosca," Aothor said, gesturing to his fellow dwarf. "And I guess that was our little way of confirming that you don't know hand-speech, either. Liri, where did you run off to, anyways? I thought you were going to catch up to me."

"_Yeah… I got a little distracted,"_ she said with a sheepish smirk. Aothor had a strong suspicion it was more than simply getting distracted.

Duncan pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a slow breath. "There was an incident. It has since been discussed and addressed. I hope the others have been able to go about their tasks with less… excitement."

Aothor thought immediately of Isefel, who he'd not seen since she left to go bother the quartermaster.

As thinking of her was a spell to summon her, the elf in question seemingly materialized at Duncan's side. A dark-haired man he didn't recognize was with her.

"Isefel. Good, you've found Daveth," Duncan said, nodding in acknowledgment of her presence. At least she got her job done even though she'd wandered off. "Once the others join us, we can get started. Now all we're missing…" Duncan trailed off as Cousland and a knight joined their number. "Well, all we're missing is Edmund."

If he didn't have a map of Ostagar already drawn in his journal, Edmund probably would have ended up lost. He still nearly did from the sheer busyness of it all.

The guard by the gate to the main army camp let him by after he displayed the seal on the message Duncan sent for him to carry. Once he stepped beyond and into the valley he was officially in untouched territory, in terms of locations he could recognize from the game.

He gripped the letter tightly, causing the parchment to crease. Every ounce of his self-control was channeled towards not opening it and reading it for himself. He had his own suspicions—hopes, if he was being honest—about what Duncan was arranging… but he had some ideas of his own.

"Edmund!" called a familiar voice. Edmund turned and found the familiar crooked grin of Farrien. The Warden slapped a friendly hand to his back and he found the wind briefly knocked from him. "Wondered when you'd show up. We were starting to think you and the others had gotten lost and wandered into Orlais."

A chuckle escaped him once he regained use of his lungs. "God, I'd hope not. I'll take darkspawn over Orlesians, any day."

"Good on you," Farrien laughed. "Though honestly sometimes I can't tell the difference—the smell is about the same, if you ask me. So, what brings you out here? Duncan's not typically one to let his recruits wander too far."

"He sent me, actually. Is Oliver around?"

Farrien shrugged, casting about briefly. "Sure, somewhere. Oy! Ollie!" he shouted clear across the camp, drawing a few heads their way.

Edmund followed the roguish warden just a few yards away where Oliver was seated with his sword across his lap, working at it with a whetstone. He didn't even look up at their approach, only heaved a heavy sigh.

"What is it now?" he asked tiredly.

"Aw, don't be like that. Hurts my feelings," Farrien said, feigning injury. "Ed's here looking for ya, word from the Commander or some such."

"Oh. Right," He said, setting his sword aside and clasping Edmund's arm in greeting. "Glad you've finally arrived—we've been wondering when you'd show up. Aothor and Liri doing alright?"

"Doing well. Getting along better than before, too, so that's nice. We even picked up three other recruits on the way here."

Oliver raised his brow in slight surprise. "Really? Hope we get a chance to meet them before the battle, though it'll probably have to wait until after the Joining. When it comes to the Wardens, the more the merrier is a good policy we like to keep. So, what's Duncan need?"

Edmund extended the sealed note. "I'm not exactly sure, but he wanted you to have this. He said, and I quote 'tell them I expect them to act without delay.'"

A frown carved it's way across his bearded face. "Sounds serious." He broke the seal, scanning the page with sharp eyes. Only a moment later he snapped to action, turning away and sheathing his sword. "Farrien, go get Sam. Tell him to pack up his gear and get a donkey or two. Get your own gear packed up as well."

"Rodger-oh, my good man," he said, turning away into the busyness of the valley.

Edmund watched for a moment as Oliver began packing a travel bag, attaching a bedroll and putting together trail rations. "So… he's sending you away?" He'd wondered if it would be something like that. The specifics still eluded him, however.

"Duncan's worried. Doesn't want to leave this to chance… but Maker, on the eve of battle…?" Oliver said, more to himself than to Edmund.

Farrien returned just moments later, travel bag slung over his shoulder. Sam was with him, similarly packed and leading a pair of donkeys at his side.

"Where is he sending you?"

"Abroad, if I'm guessing right." Sam said shortly, throwing his sack of gear over the back of the donkey.

"Dunno what Duncan's thinking, but it must be important," said Farrien, doing similarly.

"He's probably got a good reason. It's not ideal… but who knows? We've got eight new recruits. If the Maker smiles on us favorably, we could add nearly half our current number new to the force," said Oliver.

Farrien rolled his eyes. "Come on, that never happens. My money's on three, tops."

"Six. You're getting six," Edmund interjected. The three turned to stare at him, wide-eyed. "And I'm working on an alternate solution for the two that won't make it otherwise."

"How do you…?"

"Don't ask. But Duncan's sending you to the Orlesian Wardens, right? To make sure we're getting aid?" he said, changing the subject away probably too obviously.

Oliver nodded after a moment. "Yes. I'm headed to Orlais. Duncan is sending Farrien to the Free Marches and Sam to Weisshaupt. I don't know why we're going in person instead of just sending another raven… pulling Wardens away from the front at a time like this is a huge risk."

"But just waiting for aid that may or may not come is an even bigger risk," Edmund said. This was already changing things beyond what he was comfortable with… but getting the three of them off the front now meant they would live. "Think about it—all it might take to completely annihilate the Grey Wardens of Ferelden is one lost battle. You three are Duncan's insurance policy, a contingency for the worst-case scenario. Even if we fall here more help will already be on the way."

"Damn, when you put it that way…" Sam said, staring out at the assembly of Wardens and soldiers around them. "I guess it makes sense."

Farrien sighed. He was clearly not pleased about missing the battle, but resigned to his task. "Guess we'd better hit the road now, then. Duncan did say 'leave immediately,' and when he says 'immediately,' he tends to mean it. We'll be clearing out nearby farms and villages, warning people to move north, but other than that we can't afford any delays."

This was good and also potentially about to be very complicated on his end. "How long do you think it will take for you guys to get back to Ferelden?"

Oliver let out a slow breath and thought for a moment. "Hard to say. I'll probably be the first one back, maybe around a month to have the force to the front. It depends on how ready the Orlesian Wardens are to mobilize. It's more up in the air with them, however—they'll have to rely on ship for at least part of the journey. Weisshaupt is a bit of a hike and the Marcher Wardens tend to be a bit… disorganized… so there's really no way to know for sure. But it won't be quick."

Edmund followed them as they finished gathering their travel gear. Riordan came from Orlais and got trapped by Howe, supposedly not long after the fall of Ostagar. With no word from the Ferelden Wardens, no news about the situation in Ferelden, and Loghain's troops supposedly securing the borders, the rest of the Wardens never came in time to help in the game.

More uncontrolled elements would make his self-inflicted job a lot harder. But he had to believe that more Wardens in Ferelden later on would only be a good thing, in the long run.

"We'll try and hold out until you can bring help," he offered as he followed the Wardens on their way out of the valley. "If you can, send a letter to Redcliffe when you're on your way over."

"Why Redcliffe?" Farrien asked.

Edmund shrugged. "Oh, Arl Eamon will be joining the fight sooner rather than later," as always, not a total lie… he was just neglecting to add further context. "If you can coordinate with his men you can move together with them. Might save time later on."

"Huh. Thought the King wanted the Arl's men to hold back. Never saw the point of that, not when we could use the help here. Glad he's changed his mind." Sam nodded.

He found that curious himself. Why didn't Cailan want Eamon to bring his forces…? 

Cailan knew this was a doomed battleground. The clues had been there in the game for those who cared to see, and the careful managing of the camp only lead to the same conclusion. The Arl bringing his men might help in the short term… but Edmund realized the Kings subtle wisdom in keeping them away.

In the case that Ostagar failed, Eamon would still have all his men and be able to deal with the fallout. Cailan wasn't putting all his eggs in the same basket—he already had a contingency plan of his own working. The sad part was that with Loghain sending Jowan to deal with the Arl, it would all be for nothing.

Maybe he should have stopped Jowan, all those weeks ago in the Circle.

Edmund shook the thought away—too late for regrets.

"We'll send word once we can get things arranged with the Wardens abroad," Oliver said, double-checking the buckles of his gear.

"Alright, enough chat." Sam said, "We need to get on the road. If we move fast we could be most of the way to Lothering by tonight. And you'd better get back to Duncan. I imagine he'll have you and the others underway with the Joining any moment now."

Right. The Joining. The situation around that would provide it's own set of challenges. "No matter what news you hear, don't turn back. We need those Wardens in Ferelden. Trust us to deal with the rest."

The three looked at him curiously. "Alright," Oliver finally said. "Maker be with you, Recruit Amell. Don't let the darkspawn get the best of you."

He waved them off, watching as they pressed to the north.

There was one more thing he wanted to see to before returning to Duncan. He moved deeper into the army camp—Carver should be here somewhere.

Searching the crowds alone wouldn't do him any good. The problem with trying to identify the Hawke family was that their genetics were subject to flux. There was no way he could know if "real life" Carver would be the "default" or not.

He supposed, as Edmund Amell, he was technically a relative of theirs. Maybe he'd get lucky and there would be a similarity he could identify.

Edmund tapped one of the passing elven servants to get his attention—poor guy nearly leapt clean out of his skin.

"Terribly sorry sir, I didn't see you there," the elf rushed, eyes glued to his shoes.

Edmund held up his hands in what he hoped was a placating motion. "Easy, easy. You're not in trouble, I just need some directions," he asked. The elf nodded sharply. "I'm trying to find Carver Hawke. Third company, under Captain Verel. Think you can help me out?"

"Erm… my apologies, but don't know a Hawke. But Captain Verel was running drills with his men on the sparring grounds. You could try there," he offered. "Now I really have to go. If I'm caught slacking, I'll get the switch."

The elf turned to run, but on instinct Edmund reached out and grabbed the elf by the arm. His heart hurt just a little bit as the elf flinched.

"Sorry, I just…" he fumbled briefly with the words. "Where do the servants stay?"

The elf shook in his grip. "In a c-camp… set up at the back of the v-valley, sir."

"When the troops start lining up for battle, grab as many of the other servants as you can and get the hell out of here," He said, pressuring his words with urgency.

"But the penalty for deserting is death! Even the servants are held to this!" the elf exclaimed, eyes wide.

Slowly he released the elf. "When the darkspawn break through the soldiers lines the first ones on the chopping block will be you and the other servants. You might risk execution if you're caught leaving. You'll die for sure if the darkspawn get to you."

"W-what…?" The elf stuttered, blinking in utter confusion.

"It's one of those things you're just going to have to take on faith," Edmund said with a shrug. "Once your duties are finished for the evening… well, just get together who you can and get away. A lot of people are going to die tonight. But you don't have to."

The servants didn't deserve to be victims of Loghain's betrayal any more than the soldiers did. But at least them he might be able to help.

The servant inspected him seriously before offering a hesitant nod. Edmund didn't know if he was actually agreeing or just appearing to for the sake of getting away from him. He hoped it was the former.

With that the elf all but fled into the bustle of the valley encampment. Maybe it was all for nothing, but he had to try when the opportunity presented itself.

The sparring ring was a bustle with soldiers gathered around. Each of them was eager for entertainment and a chance to blow off steam. A few rudimentary rings were set up with rope and poles in the ground, some pairs of fighters going at it with their fists while others practiced with weapons.

A few men served as referees while others fought, calling fights before they got to the point where someone would be truly injured. They couldn't risk men going out of commission right before a battle, after all.

One man, armor a fair bit shinier than the others, barked a few orders and the men began to exit the ring, grabbing their gear and winding down as they moved to obey the order.

"Captain Verel?" Edmund asked, approaching the man who'd called for the men to regroup.

"Aye. Who's asking?" He said, turning and looking him over carefully.

"I have a message for Carver Hawke."

The Captain glanced back before jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "Hm. Carver? Over there, just got done in the ring. Keep it brief, will you? My men and I are busy."

He trained his gaze to where the Captain indicated. A young man in standard Ferelden armor stepped out of the ring, peeling off his helmet and shaking the sweat from his brow.

Built and beefy like a mabari, Carver Hawke stood nearly half a head above the other men around him. He'd have cut a pretty intimidating figure if he didn't still have a baby face locked in an eternal pout. Looking at him as a person instead of a computer model hit home just how _young_ he was.

He wasn't quite as pasty as the default from the game, hair more brown than black as well, but the same basic facial structure was there. Sharp blue eyes much like Edmund's own sized him up as he approached.

"You don't look like a soldier. What brings you to the sparring ring?" he asked, tipping a canteen of water to his lips and taking a drink. Edmund didn't miss how the young man's eyes lingered on his staff.

"Nah. I'm not a soldier—I'm a Warden." Or he would be, soon enough.

Carver choked on the water but quickly regained himself. "Oh. Well, I'm Carver Hawke. How… er, what do you want?" His posture stiffened, almost turning into something defensive. "Is this about her? Did something happen?"

Edmund stared at him blankly, out of the loop to whatever Carver thought he was a part of. He could be talking about Hawke—or he could be talking about literally anyone. Clarifying anything risked bringing up a whole host of questions he wasn't prepared to deal with. "Relax, I'm not here for anything official or important. It's… more of a family reunion, actually."

Carver's perpetual frown only deepened. "Sorry, do I know you?"

"No, but you do now. Our mothers were cousins. Edmund Amell. Nice to meet you, finally."

"Amell?" He mouthed the word slowly, like it tasted funny. "I think Mother's mentioned your family before. Didn't… didn't all your siblings end up being mages?"

"Something like that." He shrugged in a non-committal sort of way. "Look, don't let this spread, but… if tonight goes sideways, grab who you can and get out as fast as possible."

"What are you on about?"

He should have thought this through more thoroughly. What was he supposed to say?

Don't let your twin sister get picked up by an ogre and hulk-smashed into the ground? That would prompt some follow-up questions he really didn't want to deal with. Like what hulk-smashing was or why he thought Bethany was in danger of suffering it.

Maybe tell him to desert the army now and run home to get your family out of Ferelden? That didn't seem like a good idea either. Unless they left at the right time they wouldn't run into Flemeth, and then they'd have no help getting to Kirkwall, and supposing they even made it, they'd never had a reason to interact with Merrill. And then Merrill wouldn't get the help she needed with the mirror.

Shit, why did everything have to be so complicated?

"Being in the Wardens has it's perks. Being me has other benefits. A lot of the bonuses come in the form of information," he said with feigned ease. "Just… be ready for the worst. And watch out for ogres."

Carver huffed, rolling his eyes. "I'd figured out the bit about ogres for myself already, funny enough."

"Right," He said tapping his chin as he thought. "So, where's the third company going to be positioned for the battle?"

"We're not with the first charge, but we're supposed to follow up not long after them to support as the darkspawn try and press in. Fill the gaps to the Blighters can slip through, so to speak."

He'd be right up close on the front. Maybe Carver could be his chip to play on the field while he was busy in the tower.

"You're probably think I'm crazy, but it's important that you listen. If you see an ogre or a large group of darkspawn pressing towards the King and Warden Commander's position, get them out of there. I don't care if you have to drag Cailan by the scruff of his neck—just pull him from the front and get him to safety. Don't count on reinforcements or the flanking to come in to help. You'll be on your own."

"You're right," Carver said evenly, "I do think you're crazy."

Yeah… Edmund didn't know what else he expected. "Fine. Just… think on it, and do what you think is best. I've done my part—the rest I guess I'll have to trust to you."

"Alright boys!" Captain Verel called out, voice pitched above the ambient chatter. "Enough lazing about, we've got drills to run and work to do. Form up and follow me!"

"Look, it's been great to meet you and all," Carver said, verbally and nearly physically brushing him off as he walked past him, "But I've got things to be doing. Good luck with your… well, whatever it is you're on about. And whatever deal you've got going on with the Wardens."

Edmund sighed. He shouldn't have expected it to go smoothly. "Right. Good luck tonight, Carver."

Edmund half-walked but mostly ran back to the fortress. He wanted to stop by the kennels—they already had Lady, but if he could get a mabari of his own it would be a dream come true.

But when he finally got back to the ruin it was clear that everyone else had been a bit quicker about their tasks than he had. Duncan stood at the fire with a host of recruits around him and a strangely familiar man in splint mail.

Alistair. He was classically handsome in near the same way Cailan was, but more rugged, less pristine and more lived-in somehow. Cailan seemed like an ideal—Alistair was more a normal person.

From the looks of the way they were gathered, they were just about ready to head into the Wilds.

"Edmund, you return. Is it taken care of?" Duncan asked as he approached.

Edmund nodded. "They're on their way."

"Then we can begin with the preparations. Assuming, of course, that you're quite finished riling up mages, Alistair."

"What can I say? The Revered Mother ambushed me. The way she weilds guilt, they should stick her in the army."

"She forced you to sass the mage, did she? We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair. We don't need to give anyone more ammunition against us."

"You're right Duncan. I apologize."

"Now then, since you are all here, we can begin," Duncan said. He introduced each of them in turn briefly, clearly eager to get them underway. "The nine of you will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to preform two tasks. The first is to collect nine vials of darkspawn blood—one for each recruit."

"If we needed darkspawn blood, why didn't we just take some from the ones we fought in the forest or the cave?" Cousland asked, immediately suspicious.

Duncan only nodded. "Of course. But the components must be fresh, and the idea is for you to all work together in achieving this goal. It's as much a part of the Joining as what comes after."

"What comes after?" Isefel asked, brow raised. "What exactly do we need this darkspawn blood for?"

"For the Joining itself. I'll explain more once you've returned. For now, focus on this single task."

Liri rolled her eyes dramatically_. "Right. That's not sketchy at all."_

"What's the second task, Commander?" asked Aothor.

"There was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts. Through research in the Circle and the Shaperate it has come to my attention that some scrolls have been left behind, magically sealed to protect them," Duncan explained. Edmund had to very carefully control himself to stop from mouthing along to the familiar dialogue. "Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls, if you can."

"What's so special about these scrolls?" Rosaya asked. "Are they part of the ritual, too?"

Duncan shook his head. "The scrolls contain treaties promising support ot the Grey Wardens. Treaties that should prove valuable in the days to come.

"Collect darkspawn blood, and collect the scrolls," said Aothor, nodding with finality. "We can do that."

"Watch over your charges, Alistair. Return quickly and safely," said Duncan, unable to hide a layer of concern from his voice.

Alistair nodded, offering a salute to his commander and friend. "We will."

"Then may the Maker watch over your path. I will see you when you return."

Aothor and Alistair took the lead of their company as they filed towards the gate to the Wilds. One way or another, everything would come to a head soon.

The guard swung open the gate and Aothor called for weapons out and attention high. The Warden recruits prepared to face darkspawn and their Joining.

Edmund braced himself for Flemeth.

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**A little bit of Hawke for you on this fine day, as a treat.**

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